


Cross My Heart

by aeriiin



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Borderlands AU, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Burn, Strangers to Friends to Lovers, Trans Hanzo Shimada, will add more tags as the story progresses, yup y'all read that right
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-28
Updated: 2018-10-02
Packaged: 2018-10-24 20:46:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 66,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10749504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aeriiin/pseuds/aeriiin
Summary: McCree let out a breathy chuckle. “Listen, archer: here on Pandora, you either give in t’ the bad an’ become one’a them bandit folks, or ya try an’ do good, fail at that miserably, an’ become a Vault Hunter."





	1. A Very Pandoran Welcome

 

The attack on the ship had been over in about 30 minutes, give or take, but if asked, Hanzo would have probably started off by describing the hour leading up to it.

 

For the longest while, he hadn’t been thinking about anything in particular. He was almost entirely focused on the ongoing hum of the ship’s cargo hold, a sound that had become soothing to him in the several hours he had been on the craft; the same could however not be said for the digging at his hips from the metal crates he had wedged himself between. He had never believed in those stories of adventurers who stowed away on ships with the greatest of ease his father had read to him and his brother as children, calling them ‘unrealistic’ and ‘highly romanticized’ while his brother in turn called him a killjoy. Well, given the fact that he scarcely had enough room to bring his arm up to scratch his chin, he decided to give himself the win on that little argument.

 

He held his breath as the familiar footsteps clicked near his hiding niche for the fourth time in a row and the hairs on the back of his neck raised in anticipation. Just as before, they settled back against his skin after the sound of shoes against metal decking became distant once more, this time followed by the far door to the back of the cargo hold beeping softly.

 

A swish, more footsteps that were further than the last, the dull thud of the door shutting, and then silence. Silence and the lulling drone of the engines.

 

And it was only when he was sure he was alone with his thoughts that he let them wander.

 

He first thought of the dullness of the room itself. The walls, ceiling, the floor, the doors, and just about every container in the damn hold was some kind of alloy. While any normal person in this situation would consider themselves to be the only thing not made of some kind of metal in the entire room, the soreness below his knees and the sound his heels made as they scraped against the floor was a cruel reminder of his own reality. Bringing his legs up to his chest, he felt like he had as a child in this alcove of crates, memories of playing hide-and-seek with his brother washing over him and making him shudder.

 

 _Plan, plan, think of the plan._ _What is your plan?_

 

He then thought on the wad of money burning a hole in his inner jacket pocket, waiting to be forked over to the first person who agreed to get him safely to the nearest settlement.

 

The archer almost scoffed at the word. ‘Safely’. There wasn’t ‘safe’ on Pandora; there were just varying degrees of ‘oh shit’ and ‘don’t shoot me’. He knew what the planet had up its sleeves for him: the crazed bandits, the paranoid wastelanders, and the absolutely absurd stories of the valiantly stupid Vault Hunters who patrolled the lands for treasure and fame before ultimately dying horrible deaths, as everything does on Pandora. He had heard tales of the hellish landscape and hostile inhabitants that left everyone calling it ‘the ass-crack of the galaxy’. It wasn’t going to be Hanamura, not by a long shot.

 

_No, don’t name it. Don’t think it. Keep it out of your thoughts. Think of the plan._

 

He shifted himself slightly from out of the crevice between the crates, the indents in his skin from where the edges had been pushed against him being his only indication of how long he had been forced into that position. His bow was tucked away neatly inside the hardened-alloy case that extended across his cubbyhole of a hiding spot, yet all he wanted was to have it in his hands, if for nothing else than to comfort him and calm his nerves.

 

Despite the dimly-lit exterior of the cargo hold, if he really squinted, Hanzo could just barely make out the labels on some of the crates around him. The bulk of the boxes seemed to contain building supplies and tools, just going off of the labels alone. Vishkar, Utopia bound. In retrospect, it wasn’t surprising considering the ship was going to be docking nearby the currently under-construction city. He didn’t know much about the development, but he knew it was going to be too much like home for him.

 

_Not home. Not anymore._

 

A muted voice on the ship’s incom system, the gradual dip of his stomach, and the whirr of the engines from deep within the ship keyed him into the fact that they were finally, _finally_ descending, after what had felt like an eternity, and the rest of those thoughts in his head were wiped away.

 

That was when the ship crashed.

 

He heard the sound before anything else: a high-pitched whistle from the outside that was muffled by the thick sheets of metallic hide that plated the outside of the ship. Then, there was the deafening crash and crunch of metal being torn asunder, and the ship lurched so harshly to the side Hanzo was nearly ejected from the niche completely. The crates toppled to the floor, clattering noisily and cluttering the ground, and the man could just barely make out the sounds of hysteria and alarm bells on the deck above.

 

Hanzo had just put his arms out to brace himself when the second thunderous boom struck the ship, far louder than the previous; if the suddenly intense light and the smell of burning air that flooded the room was anything to go off of, Hanzo knew he had only seconds to move _._ He just wished he had gotten the chance to do so.

 

He remembered the rest of the crash in fragments of moments. He remembered being hurled along with toppled crates towards the front of the hold; he remembered the jostling of the ship that churned his stomach for him, the deafening roar of now failing engines. A wayward container slammed into his stomach too fast for him to react and left him winded. The archer wheezed deeply as he tried to find balance against the mountain of crates that were piling up against the wall amidst the turbulence of a ship in mid-nosedive which, in all honesty, was exactly as hard as it sounded.

 

When the collision finally came, it happened far too quick. The chorus of crunching iron and steel and screeching machinery came to a jarring stop as the ship hit land. Everything that hadn’t been tied down (like Hanzo) or had not already been flung towards the nose of the ship (not like Hanzo) was launched into the ceiling of the hold along with the rest of the luggage (and Hanzo). What little air he had managed to regain from earlier was jettisoned out of his body immediately upon impact. His back hurt. His lungs hurt. Everything hurt, and it only hurt more when he fell back down and the crates piled on top of him.

 

It was Hanzo’s first lesson about the reality of Pandora, and the first of many at that.

 

_Rule one: everything happens faster than you think it will. Get used to it._

 

\--------------

 

Jesse smelled the cheap liquor and smoldering wood of a campfire before he even opened his eyes. Well, he hoped it was a campfire at least. Even in his half-conscious state of mind, he knew he was too far to tell for sure.

 

He felt like what slag smelled like. Eyes bleary and unable to focus, head throbbing, ears ringing, stomach flip-flopping this way and that. In all honesty, he couldn’t tell if he was drunk, drugged, or concussed.

 

He really hoped for the first, but was willing to bet money on the last.

 

His first instinct was to sit up, but the bindings on his wrists kept him seated against the pillar that stood just beyond the glow of the fire pit. Jesse felt the world tilt and bile form in the back of his throat at the sudden motion. His mouth burned as he swallowed the lump back, fighting back the urge to spit at the sickening taste it left.

 

_Okay, take it easy. Get a sense of your surroundings. Don’t try nothin’ just yet. You can’t fight, you can’t move, you got nothin’ right now._

 

The bound man lifted his head slightly at a new sound that caught his ear aside from the heartbeat in his head and the crackle of the fire pit, one that caused him to wince in pain.

 

“-’bout this guy anyway?”

 

Voices talking. Just what he needed right now: more noise. He’d look up towards the fire where the voices seemed to originate from, but his sore neck loudly protested that idea, so he kept his head low for the time being.

 

“Deanie’s got some plan. Get a hold ‘a some big name like Maliwan or Vish, we hand him off, we get paid and we have a fucking party! Gonna get a good share this time, too!”

 

 _Bandits. Fucking fantastic_.

 

A scoff and a clicking noise suggested the first voice was toying with the safety on his gun. McCree briefly pondered the chances of the guy accidentally blowing his brains out. Wouldn’t be the first time he saw something like that happen, especially when Bandits were concerned.

 

“We better; his bounty is the biggest I’ve seen in years! Who is this guy anyway?”

 

“Hell if I know! Deanie knows but he ain’t sayin’ shit.” He heard the second voice grunt in annoyance. “Dickweed. He don’t tell us nothing. Didn’t even tell us ‘bout that supply ship raid we got comin’ up.”

 

“Ship’s not comin’ for another day or so. Quit whinin’, dipshit!”

 

“Bah... oooh, hey, that’s even better! Dipshit Deanie! Hahaha! He’d love it!”

 

The two voices continued on with their conversation, but McCree had lost any interest in what they were saying. As long as they had each other’s attention, he was free to metaphorically roam about the cabin.

 

When his nausea settled enough that he didn’t get sick from turning his head too fast, he shifted his gaze from the ground by his feet upwards. The all-too-familiar sight of a typical Pandoran bandit camp greeted him: ramshackle huts and shacks decorated with pikes, barrels, repurposed scrap metal, and any other odds and ends the scavengers could steal and loot off of the trail of corpses they left in their wake. The rusted sheets of metal that acted as some sort of shitty barrier caught most of the rays from the setting sun, but a few still managed to warm the right side of his body. Dusk was close.

 

He stifled a groan. It had been closer to early afternoon in the day when he had decided to take his smoke break out by the ridge near Overlook; that, of course, was assuming it was still the same day. In reality, he had no idea how long he had been out for. Jesse was willing to bet that if the afterlife was real and ol’ Reyes was up there watching over his sorry ass, the old soldier was probably laughing at how easily his prized protege had been caught off-guard, and by _bandits_ nevertheless.

 

Deanie. He knew that name, or thought he did anyways. Might be the concussion talking though. The man led a band of small time fellas out by the old mill, called themselves something stupid like, ‘Flesh’ or ‘Blood’ something. They all did that; ‘creativity of a bandit’ wasn’t a saying in his book for nothing.

 

Jesse tested the bonds around his wrists. Rope, if the rawness of his skin was anything to go off of. If he was subtle, he could use the knife he kept tucked in his left arm to whittle away at his bonds. He frowned. The idea was risky; sure, bandits were a few cards short of a deck, but they were also a twitchy lot, and more perceptive than people gave ‘em credit for. The two voices from before were close by the fire, and those were only the ones he could see from his position.

 

That being said, he really didn’t want to be around whenever someone did end up showing up to cash in his bounty. It was risky, but he was Jesse fuckin’ McCree. He’d done far dumber shit before breakfast.

 

The gunslinger tried to shift as little as possible as his fingers searched for the sliding panel that concealed the knife, feeling around as best as he could with his hands bound until his right felt the metal of his left. _To the left? Or was it more down? No, that’s not- ah, wait!_

 

He hissed loudly as his fingers caught the edge of the knife and the sharp sting that followed. His hand felt slick as blood began to trickle down from the cut that ran across three of his five digits. Well, at least he knew it hadn’t needed sharpening.

 

“... doesn’t even resp- Hey! Hey, I see ya there, skagshit! You were tryin’ somethin’!”

 

McCree lifted his head to look at his masked guardsmen by the firepit. “Huh. So I was. Fancy that.”

 

The one closer to him took a step forward, gun in hand. Owner of the first voice, then.“Quit playin’ around, assclown!” Yup, definitely the first voice. Rough, crackly, and sounding about as pissed as every other bandit he’s ever met in his life thus far.

 

His name was now ‘cupcake’.

 

McCree gave him a coy smile as his fingers slid towards the handle of the knife once more, though slower and much more careful of the pointy end. Sure, he was unarmed and wasn’t going to get 10 feet without getting a bullet, knife, or some other bandit contraption to the gut, and sure, it was already stupid enough as is to be provoking an emotionally unstable armed man.

 

_Well, what can I say? I’m a Vault Hunter. It’s what I do._

 

“Hm? Which am I? Skagshit or assclown? If you’re gonna go ahead an’ give me a nickname, cupcake, it’s gotta be consistent.”

 

“Shut up, shut up, shut up!” He didn’t need to see the man’s face to hear the utter aggravation behind his words. The bandit stomped towards him and let out a growl that was far more animalistic to be human. “I’m gonna pump ya full of lead if you-”

 

At this point, the second bandit stalked up to the advancing one and slapped him upside the head. His full face mask was a bit more cracked than the other’s mask, and Jesse could even faintly see one of the eyes through one crack specifically. Probably an older member of the gang if he had to guess.

 

“Can it, meathead. We need him alive for the bounty.” Cracked Mask took a second to sneer at the bound cowboy. “He ain’t worth the bullets.”

 

Jesse chuckled at that, attention still on Cupcake. “Your buddy’s right, y’know. Ain’t no need to throw a hissy fit, cupcake.” Knife was still imbedded in the panel, but he at least found the handle with no further injuries. Just a little more and he’d have it. _Gotta keep ‘em talking._ “See what I did there? Consistency. It startin’ to sink in with you yet, cupca-”

 

His last thought before he blacked out completely from the blow to the side of his head was a simple one at that.

 

_Fuckin’ bandits._

 

\----

 

Hanzo cracked open his eyes wearily after what felt like ages. It was dark but he could still see beams of harsh sunlight pouring through the cracks between the crates. Flecks of dust and dirt danced in the air, and he took small comfort in the fact that he was not blind or otherwise impaired visually. Good.

 

He tested his fingers first, curling them in and out of a fist slowly. Not broken, but god, did it hurt. Every part of him hurt, really. Breathing hurt the worst; he’d guess a bruised rib, judging by the pain level.

 

_This is nothing. You’ve felt worse._

 

The archer couldn’t see much lying down on his stomach like he was now. Most of his field of vision was taken up by the supply crates from before.

 

He carefully lifted himself so he was resting on his forearms, causing a few of the smaller containers that had been on his back to tumble off in a series of dull thunks and thuds before hitting the metal decking with a loud clank. One landed on his left hand and made him wince, feeling yet another bruise already forming on the skin. He was starting to wonder if these boxes just had it out for him today.

 

Hanzo stumbled to all-fours, not trusting his legs just yet to stand after all he had endured in the last half hour alone; that wasn’t even including how long he had been stuck in that crevice of crates. He should have expected something like this; Pandora’s survival rate was notoriously low, hence the low passenger count on the ship in the first place. Why he ever expected to be able to even set foot on the planet without something exploding in his face was beyond him.

 

Shuffling footsteps forced him out of his thoughts, and he pressed himself against one of the larger crates that separated him from the newly blown-apart entrance to the grounded ship. The archer listened closely.

 

Someone- no, multiple people coming into the hull. Heavy boots. Clattering of guns. Voices somewhat muddled by masks. They were talking, one of them barking orders.

 

“Alright, Rot Gutters, you know the drill: guns, ammo, shields, anything shiny that ain’t bolted down, and if it’s bolted down, bust the bolt and grab it anyways!”

 

His blood ran cold at that. Where was his bow?

 

Eyes darted around his general vicinity. Dahl greens, Vishkar cyan and white, cobalts and grays of some other company he didn’t recognize, no, _no-_

 

It wasn’t here. Had it been thrown around during the crash? It couldn’t have- No. No, he couldn’t panic. Not now. This was not the time for panic. He took a deep breath. He needed to stay low, out of sight. They had weapons. He didn’t. He was alone. They weren’t. He wasn’t going to win a fight like this; not the way he wanted to, at least.

 

He kept absolutely still as the voices, the ‘Rot Gutters’ as they so eloquently called themselves, flitted about the hold, checking crates and safes like their lives depended on it. He didn’t see much from his position initially, the majority of the sounds being latches unlocking and disgruntled sounds whenever they couldn’t force open a lock.

 

“God damn- aargh!” A few solid kicks to a metallic surface that punctuated the voice’s words. “Open up, ya motherfucker!”

 

“Oh for the love’a- someone go get Buzz Kill already; he’s gonna hurt himself an’ then he’s gonna be bitchin’ about it for the next three hours.”

 

“I don’t need help! This thing ain’t got a lock, so why!” Kick. “Won’t!” Another kick. “It!” Once more, with feeling. “OPEN!?”

 

“What’ya mean ‘it ain’t got a lock’?! What’s the logo?”

 

“It ain’t got one! It’s all silvery with dragons, and it’s just got some kinda screen-pad thing! But I mean, dragons, man! We gotta get that shit open!”

 

_Oh fuck no._

 

That got him to finally peer around the corner of his cover. Sure enough, just a few yards away, four masked individuals stood around his bow case. The one he assumed was the aforementioned ‘Buzz Kill’ still had his foot on the top of the case, mud from his boot flecking off onto the otherwise pristine metallic casing. Hanzo wanted to strangle him the most.

 

The searing pain that shot through his stiff legs as he tried to stand was the only thing that stopped him from getting up and actually doing so.

 

“Eh, just grab it and put it with the rest. We’ll have Gus check it out when we get back to camp. C’mon, keep searchin’, boys. Deanie’s expecting a big score on this one.”

 

It wasn’t long before the hull was picked clean of everything they deemed worth anything. Anything marked as building supplies was left to the wayside, and Hanzo was forced to watch as his bow’s case was tossed outside the hole in the ship along with the rest of the crates and containers the vultures couldn’t open. The bandits left as swiftly as they came, and about as noisily, too. Hoots and hollers could be heard even over the roar of their dune buggy motors as they drove away from the ship, Hanzo waiting until silence fell inside the hull before attempting to stand again.

 

It was only mildly easier than before and after a few more tries, he was finally able to stand to his full height. From his throat ripped a furious howl of pain, one that encompassed not only the feelings in his sore limbs, but the general shit storm he had just suffered in the past hour and a half of being on this god-forsaken planet.

 

When his voice was hoarse and no more sound would escape his lips, Hanzo let out a shaky breath and ran a hand through his thoroughly-tousled hair. No, he could not lose focus like this. Nothing was that different than before. He was down his bow and he was not at the starting point he thought he’d be at, but he was still on Pandora. Nothing had changed; the plan was still the same.

 

_Think of the plan. You have a plan. Think. Breathe._

 

He dug around in his inner jacket pocket until he found what he was looking for: a simple silver wristband with a square face and two buttons embedded on either side. The bow-less archer clicked them together, and a small blue holo-screen flashed before him, fuzzy at first before clearing up and showing the local area map. Two lights then appeared on the screen as Hanzo made his way out of the ship’s hull, one yellow and the other a much deeper blue that was currently moving north of the yellow light.

 

Things may happen fast on Pandora, but like hell he was going to sit around and just let them.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all! Thank you so much for reading!! Just as a heads up, chapters will be uploaded as I complete them, so expect somewhat sporadic updates and such ;u;
> 
> This is the first project I've ever been a part of of this size and honestly it would not be possible without my amazing and wonderful friend over at thetiniestcicada on tumblr as my co-author/editor/all around motivator to get my butt in gear :D no really this whole thing wouldn't even exist without them yo 
> 
> (also feel free to follow me on tumblr at aerihead and yell about whatever \o/ )


	2. Hanzo's Lesson in Geography

He’d give the cartographers of Pandora credit where it’s due: the craggy, mountainous terrain certainly earned its highly uncreative name of ‘The Highlands’. Massive peaks of stone and earth jutted forth from the ground all around, forming canyons and valleys that made Hanzo feel as though he were in the most poorly constructed bowl the universe had to offer. The sleek grass that he occasionally spotted growing atop the spiked ridges reminded him more of moss than anything else. Still, he couldn’t deny the subtle beauty of this otherwise alien topography, the late afternoon sun casting a gentle amber glow on the rocks and glinting off of intermittent pools of water. All in all, his surroundings were a far cry from the barren and desolate landscape he had come to expect from Pandora from his readings.

 

_ Rule two: everything on Pandora can and will defy all expectations.  _

 

Bracing his arm against one such precipice, Hanzo peered over his shoulder in the direction he had come from. About a thousand yards outward, the carcass of the ravaged ship laid along the shorelines of the lake that housed Utopea. Radiant orange flames licking off from the metal husk melded together with the light that reflected off of the water’s surface, and forced the archer to bring up a hand to his brow to shield his eyes from the blinding glare. If he squinted, he could faintly make out figures bustling about the grounds, but he was too far to discern any specific details. 

 

Hanzo shuddered at the wind that whipped around him. He felt so blind, looking into the distance without his vision being framed by the riser of his bow. If the gracious greeting he had been subject to was anything to go by, being without a weapon on Pandora was suicidal.

 

Pulling his jacket closer inward, he turned his gaze back to the beeping on his wrist. The blue light was still moving ahead, much to his chagrin, and while he had made some progress in that direction, he wanted his bow back sooner rather than later. ‘Later’ might mean his weapon would end up in the hands of those wretched thieves, or worse: broken up into parts to be used for their devices. His skin crawled at the very thought.

 

He scanned the slope ahead, eyeing the rocks and visualizing his own descent down. 60 feet off the ground, if he were to guess. Tricky, but manageable. Left edge, another left, then right. Avoid the ledge to the very far left after that, the one with the slick patch of grass. His brow furrowed as he looked past that section of crags; he would have to slide down quite a ways after that in order to reach the next safe landing. Climbing up had been easy enough, but it was becoming clear that coming down was going to pose more than just a fair challenge to the man. An image of a cat stuck in a tree came to mind, to which he scowled. 

 

Even his own thoughts were mocking him. Lovely.

 

He had always enjoyed being high up, even back on… that planet. Several retainers of the estate often likened the young Hanzo to a monkey with how swiftly he scaled up any tall structure he could find: trees, buildings, bell towers, anything stationery that was deemed tall enough by his standards would become a nice little spot for him to perch upon and gaze out at his surroundings. It had surprised no one when he took to archery as easily as a fish to water.

 

Hanzo had made it about halfway down the gradual slope when his heel got caught between the breaks in the rock, the ear-splitting screech of metal scraping into stone filling the air and echoing between the nearby crags. A large chunk of rock crumbled away underneath and left him to flail about as he attempted to right himself. His hands clasped the handholds above him, blunt nails fruitlessly digging into the rock as his feet tried to find some purchase.

 

Nothing. Nothing but a smooth face from where the rock had fallen away. He was going to have to pull up or fall down. 

 

A string of colorful curses left his lips as he began to heave himself up, but they were cut short by another piercing screech. It was unlike the sound from before; it held no metallic hint to its form and was far more primal in nature. His mind raced as to what could have possibly made that sound before the answer presented itself to him a second later.

 

He saw the wings before he saw anything else: massive, leathery wings that made up most of the creature’s mass, with the rest of its thin and angular form wreathed in spiky protrusions that trailed all the way down the tip of its gnarled, spindly tail. It was as if an ugly bat met a circular saw blade and the two decided to have the world’s nastiest child together. It opened its gaping maw of razor sharp teeth, and released another deafening scream that rattled Hanzo to the core.

 

And rattle him it did because, for the second time that day, he lost his footing and, for the first time in a really long time, he fell.

 

The first impact against the slope was not nearly as bad as he imagined it would be. It was still painful, but in the same way that skinning one’s knee on the pavement was painful. The second impact, however, was another story entirely. It hurt more like a swift kick to the side (and he had received many of those to know how that pain felt), and kept hurting as he plummeted down the crag. Hanzo couldn’t tell what was up and what was down in his tumbling, pebbles and gravel kicking up into his face as dust billowed up around him. His head spun, he felt sick from being jerked around so violently, and all he could tell was that he was sliding, and fast.

 

In a last ditch attempt to right himself, he swung his legs out in front of him and his arms out to either side. Jagged rocks dug into his palms as he did so, and he could already feel the dirt in the cuts that formed, but he was up. Still sliding down an alarming rate, but he was up nevertheless. Progress.

 

The screeching of his heels in the rocky surface blended with those of the airborne creature that was far above him now into a horrible cacophony of shrill whines that made the archer’s ears ring. He spared a glance back towards it in fear of it pursuing him, but the fine dust left in his wake clouded his vision almost completely. There was a flash of movement, obscured somewhat through the layer of dirt, but, to his surprise, the screaming creature’s cries grew more and more distant as if it too were moving farther away. When he no longer could hear it, a wave of minor relief flushed over him, though it was quickly replaced with the pain growing in his backside from sliding down the craggy mountain side.

 

By the time he reached the ground, the slope had become something more akin to a steep sledding hill than the steep precipice it had began as. He landed about as gracefully as one would expect from someone who had tumbled down a thirty-or-so feet mountain side into hardened ground. Hanzo’s limbs ached terribly, and he had been cut to shit, for a lack of better terms, his clothing hardly faring any better. From head to toe he was covered in a layer of dust, dirt, and whatever else had decided to fleck up against him while he had been sliding. He let out a ghost of a pained groan when the world stopped moving by without him, and remained sprawled across the ground as clumsily as he had landed, eyes casting up towards the sky itself. 

 

In the hour or two since he had first entered Pandora’s atmosphere, he had survived a cargo ship crash, a fully-armed bandit raid, whatever the hell that thing was back there, and now he could add ‘surviving a fall from a mountain’ to the list of ‘Things Hanzo Shimada should have anticipated to endure when he decided to go to Pandora in the first place’.

 

_ An addendum to rule two: things on Pandora can and will defy expectations, but not  _ **_everything_ ** _. _

 

When he no longer felt completely boneless, Hanzo took his time standing to his feet, wincing at the pain in his left side and letting out a shaking breath to steady himself. His ribs hurt, but it was dulled, and he felt no bumps or protrusions when he ran his hand under his shirt. Not broken, though certainly bruised. 

 

Glancing at his wrist, the dots on the screen reloaded. The yellow dot jumped around for a bit before settling back down. Several miles northward, the now stationary blue dot flashed at him. The archer sighed through his nose heavily.

 

He could work with bruised.

 

\---

 

Hanzo never had considered himself an overly dramatic man, but even he nearly broke out into song and dance when he found himself approaching the water tower-like structure, his first true sign of civilization since he had begun this godforsaken trek through the wilds of Pandora. Of course, calling it ‘civilization’ was being generous but, given what he had just endured in the last few hours, he was willing to bend his definition of the word a little bit.

The tower itself looked as though it was about to topple over from its own weight, rust coating the riveted panels and growing alongside it like mold or a fungus. To the right of the tower was a cluster of three other smaller tin shacks in a similar state of disarray, and about as sturdy in appearance to boot. The closest of these huts sported some sort of satellite dish that he highly doubted had been used in years, judging by its dingy and equally tarnished physique, and from his position he could see the frayed electrical cord that once connected the dish to the generator behind the shack.

 

He would have gone to check the tower and shacks more thoroughly were it not for two heavily armed individuals in full-face masks that prowled the area. 

 

They had been there when he first arrived, the archer bringing himself to investigate the area upon hearing the two of them yelling back and forth at one another in a series of angry insults and demands. Their argument itself was of little interest to him, their masks making it somewhat difficult to understand. In any case, he was far more interested in their modes of transportation situated just across the shanty lot: a pair of vehicles that resembled quad-bikes, their ramshackle forms appearing about as stable as the water tower itself.  He was beginning to sense a pattern in Pandoran architecture and design, one that relied almost exclusively on one’s own ability to shove two random scraps of metal together and taping it so it didn’t fall apart. In this very moment, however, they were exactly what he needed.

 

“Hurry it up, jackwad!” Hanzo watched from his position behind the satellite shack as one of the bandits gestured back towards the quad-bikes. “We don’t got all day; I wanna get movin’.”

 

The other bandit, whose back was currently facing him, grunted. “How ‘bout’cha get off my dick, and let a guy find a place piss in peace, asshole?!”

 

“Tch. Find yourself a stage while you’re at it, drama queen; I’m gonna keep searchin’.” And with that, the impatient bandit made his way towards the farthest shack, stowing his gun against his back as he walked. The other bandit waved off his partner’s words with an agitated swat of his hand, turning away from the tower and stalked towards the shack Hanzo was behind.

 

Dipping back behind the building, his mind went into hyperdrive. The man approaching was armed with at least one gun that he could see. Amount of protection was unknown. The knife hidden in his coat could work in theory, but the mask the bandit wore looked thick and the archer was less than thrilled at the idea of potentially bloodying his hands directly. He did have the element of surprise though, but would a swift hit to the head be enough to knock him out completely? He was running out of time, he needed to think, he needed to-

 

His eyes landed on the satellite cord, then up to the satellite. Back to the cord. 

 

_ Oh. That will do just fine. _

 

“-Son of a bitch, tryin’ to tell me how’ta do...wuh?” 

 

Just as the bandit’s eyes met Hanzo’s, but before he could register what was happening, the archer grabbed the cord and yanked it down in one swift, fluid motion, the satellite dish loudly screaming against the tin roof as it came crashing down. He jumped back just as the dish collided with the bandit’s head with a resonating crack, the man having just looked up only seconds before. The bandit crumbled to the ground in a heap along with the satellite in an instant as his gun clattered to the ground, unmoving.

 

One down, one to go.

 

It didn’t take long before he got the response he expected. A loud groan of annoyance, a few stomps from angry boots. “What in the fuck did you do, piss for brains?!” 

 

When he didn’t sense the impatient bandit immediately drawing closer, Hanzo took the opportunity to reach down and grab the gun lying beside the man on the ground. The handgun was compact but dense, its green camo exterior the only splash of color on the otherwise drab, military-style weapon. He recalled briefly something about the guns of Pandora being as eccentric as the people living there, but he had no time to test that theory in its entirety as before long he heard heavy footfalls once more.

 

“Hey, you hear me, shit-head? C’mon, we’re moving out!” 

 

Silence greeted the man again, and Hanzo froze as the bandit rounded the corner a moment later, nearly knocking into him in the process. With adrenaline pumping hot through his veins, he pivoted his legs to the side, and his hand holding the weapon followed through with the momentum. The butt of the gun connected solidly against the oncoming bandit’s temple. A yelp of pain and surprise died on the bandit’s lips as his legs flew out from under him from the force of the hit and he too collapsed onto the ground inches away from his friend.

 

The dust settled. He now had two unconscious bandits, one still armed and the other smelling distinctly of urine, and a weapon. This was already vast improvement compared to his last experience with these sorts of ruffians, and he was briefly amazed at how low the bar had been set.

 

He felt a sense of irony in taking the clips of handgun ammo from one of the bandits’ belts, though it was quickly wiped away when he jogged over to the quad-bikes. As he revved up the engine, the vehicle coming to life beneath him, a thought occurred to him. Turning to his side, Hanzo pulled out the gun and fired off two shots into the wheels of the other bike. They deflated with a loud sputtering noise that most certainly did not make him giggle like a thirteen-year-old. 

 

Nope. Totally didn’t giggle, and no one was around to prove it. Well, no one conscious anyhow.

 

With the bandits incapacitated and now unable to follow him, he checked his wristband once more before throttling forward. Blue dot due north, yellow dot miles away. The sun was beginning to sink below the range of mountains to the west, and he felt a new wave of determination pulse through him. It was time to get moving.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hanzo laughs at fart humor and you can't prove it to me otherwise
> 
> sorry tht this chapter seems a bit shorter than the last; i promise i'll be getting to the meat and bones soon ;u; just let me rough up this sweet boy a lil before i do so
> 
> edit: thank u cin for fixing my horrible coding idek what happened oh gosh
> 
>  
> 
> [ALSO CHECK OUT THIS LOVELY WONDEROUS AND DID I SAY LOVELY ART JUST WOW AMAZING ART OF THESE BOYS](http://thetiniestcicada.tumblr.com/post/160356231221/hey-hey-heyyy-ive-been-pretty-busy-workin-on)
> 
>  
> 
> and as always, feel free to follow [me](http://aerihead.tumblr.com/) and [my friend/co-author](http://thetiniestcicada.tumblr.com/) on tumblr!!!


	3. The Boys Strike a Deal

 

Finding the camp hadn’t been an issue for the bowless archer. Sure, the tracking device’s battery died out on him sometime after his little motorbike-bandit escapade, and the bike itself was only good for a few miles more after that. By then, however, he had been close enough to see the half-rusted, thrown-together, sorry excuse for a camp, somewhat shrouded by a layer of shadow provided by the sun dipping below the horizon, and he had known that he had found the place.

 

Slipping past the two guards by the front gate hadn’t caused him any problems either. A rock thrown over yonder, a swift hit to the side of the temple, then another, and he was in. It had almost seemed like some sort of joke with how simple it had been.

 

No, the real challenge began when he realized he had no idea where to even start looking. With his tracker down, the best weapon in his arsenal being the very thing he was trying to retrieve, and the fact that he had decided to take back his bow from who knows how many armed individuals all by himself and was armed with only a handgun he had looted off of somebody not even an hour ago, he was wondering for what felt like the millionth time why he had thought this gods-forsaken planet would have been the safest bet for him.

 

He pressed himself thin against one of the many large metal beams that supported the ramshackle huts above as twin sets of footsteps continued on past his right without stopping. Memories from the cargo-hold briefly flooded back to him and he breathed a sigh of relief when he no longer heard the footfalls nearby.

 

Hanzo knew he needed to get to higher grounds to see what he was going up against, but with the watchtowers and the many guards stationed sporadically throughout the camp, it was becoming increasingly apparent he was going to be grounded for now. Close-quarters fighting wasn’t an issue per say, but years of archery had certainly left him with a preference for distance. That, and he wasn’t sure that half a clip in the handgun at his side was going to be enough to take out everyone in the camp.

 

The bandit armed with the rifle in the tall watchtower to the far right wasn’t looking his way. An opening. A heartbeat later and he was on the move, crouching behind a strange silo-like structure that was pressed against the gate that surrounded the camp and slinking as far back into the shadows as he could.

 

He held his breath and counted to ten in his head. No alarms, no voices shouting after him. He hadn’t been spotted.

 

When he peaked his head around the side, Hanzo was greeted to a much better view of the bandit settlement than he had gotten from his previous position. Besides the large metal hangars that he saw bandits shuffling in and out of occasionally, there were three watchtowers total with the closest tower being just under a hundred feet away in front of him. The towers themselves were little more than run-down shacks on stilts and were all connected by a flimsy metal bridge that looked as though it would buckle at any given time. An armed guard was stationed at each of the towers from what he could see, and he was almost certain the one in the tower closest to him was asleep, the bandit’s gun resting comfortably on their lap as their head lulled back in their lawn chair.

 

Directly to the right the tower were the remains of an old campfire, the blackened ash a stark contrast against the light brown dirt below it. A hut sat behind the campfire against the wall of the camp. As he turned to view the rest of the camp, however, a flash of red caught his eyes as he noticed a lone figure slumped against a post beside the hut, their arms and midsection bound with rope behind them. The wide-brim of their hat blocked out any facial features. If he hadn’t seen the skulls on the pikes just outside the main gate, he would have readily assumed this person was just some unlucky soul who was awaiting whatever fate these ruffians decided for them. The lack of movement, however, was discomforting, and Hanzo was all but certain they were either unconscious or dead.

 

 _They could also be a bandit just like everyone else here. Don’t risk it. You’ve got a plan. Think of the plan._ _Get your bow. Get to town. Survive._

 

Hanzo stared at the figure, the red cloth around their shoulders blanketing a majority of their bulky frame.

 

 _A bandit_. A victim.

 

 _A threat_. An ally.

 

 _Think of the plan_ , the logical voice in his head warned.

 

He clenched the fist at his side tightly as a strange pang of something tugged at his heart. Plans. Always with the plans. He was growing tired of waiting around and doing nothing, of following orders and plans to a ‘T’ without a second thought about the matter. What good was a plan when it meant potentially innocent lives must be lost as a result?

 

No, he was through with that sort of life the minute he left Hanamura.

 

His feet moved before he could give himself time to doubt his course of action. Swift and silent as he darted from shadow to shadow, Hanzo set his course for the stranger beside the hut, and hoped that he was not going to regret this.

 

\---

 

It was a struggle to open his eyes the second time. His eyelids felt like concrete, his thoughts were thick like split-pea soup, and McCree swore he saw spots when the strangely gentle hand on his shoulder shook him awake.

 

A low voice beside him- the hand-owner- was whispering at him. To him. It wasn’t one of the voices he recognized, not any of his little bandit friends. Wait, they were saying something- asking him something. The words were hard to pick out at the moment. The voice was low and strong, even muffled as it was. They were trying to be quiet. Bandits don’t try to be quiet, and they certainly don’t ask questions. Not the smart ones anyways.

 

“-ar me…? A.. you…ive...?”

 

McCree blinked, his eyes slowly adjusting to the darkness around him. He was at the camp still, the fire before him long dead and the sun nowhere to be seen in the sky. Not only that, but the ground was far colder than he remembered. It had been a while since the sun had set then. He shut his eyes again and took a deep breath before craning his neck painfully upward.

 

The first thing he noticed was his face, or more so that he could actually see the man’s face at all. No mask, no usual bandit attire, nothing; just a brown jacket and unfamiliar black attire that  tapered at the knees. He had sharp features all over, from his jawline to his cheeks to his eyes. Hell, even his jet-black hair looked as though it could cut someone if they weren’t careful.

 

The man’s words finally registered with him after a moment more. ‘ _Can you hear me? Are you alive?’_

 

His voice was as hoarse as his throat was dry when he finally croaked out a weak “Yeah, I hear ya...” in response. It came out as little more than a pathetic wheeze thanks to the binds around his upper torso, but it was better than leaving the guy hanging.

 

The hand on his shoulder flinched and those intense eyes were locked on him in an instant. The guy probably thought him as good as dead, or at least close enough to finish him off without feeling too guilty. McCree didn’t need a mirror to know he looked the part of a right mess at the moment if the grimy feeling of dirt and blood caked on his face was anything to go by.

 

“You are alive.” Yep, definitely had been expecting a dead guy. The man’s brow furrowed as his eyes gave him a careful once-over. He knew that look anywhere: it was a look of ‘Is this person worth my time and effort?’. It was an important question here on Pandora, where everyone had job offers but wanted to be sure they got someone who could get the job done right. Capable people were always in hot demand, and it would be no surprise to him if his hero wanted something in return for all of this.

 

“You are hurt.” It wasn’t a question or up for debate, for that matter. He heard the man pull something off his belt and soon a knife was hooked under the ropes, though no effort was made to cut them as of yet. “Get out if you can. Do not linger.”

 

“I can help.” If the man wasn’t going to outright say what he wanted, McCree was all for throwing himself out there. Could he actually help this guy? He sure as shit didn’t know, but it was better than sitting around here and metaphorically twiddling his thumbs.

 

There was that look again, though more cynical than before. “How? You are concussed.” He felt those eyes look him over once again and the man quickly added, “And unarmed.”

 

McCree shrugged as much as he could with his bindings with a small grin.  “I’ve had worse.”

 

The man gave a silent laugh at the comment. “Somehow, I do not doubt that.” Seemingly satisfied for now, he started to saw through the bindings. The relief McCree felt from the ropes breaking was instantaneous, the gunslinger’s sore and battered limbs collapsing down by his side.

 

“Come. To your feet. We need somewhere safe to talk.”

 

McCree glanced around briefly until he jutted his chin behind him. “The shack.”

 

His terse companion only nodded, and yanked McCree to his feet effortlessly. When they both were certain he would not topple over, they crouched low and pressed up against the wall of the shack, standing on either side of the door. It was no more than a ratty shower curtain drawn to the side and fluttering in the faint night breeze, but for bandits it was pretty damn fancy. Peering inside, they both simultaneous breathed a sigh of relief when it was empty save for an abandoned cot, two empty crates, and a litany of bottles strewn about. The entire space was scarcely larger than the inside of a Cara-van, and the more McCree looked at it, the more he was beginning to think it really was just a Cara-van flipped over and hollowed out to make a cozy little bandit hovel. It would have to do for the time being.

 

Slumping unceremoniously to the dirt floor, McCree held his breath as his stomach churned in place. This wasn’t the first time he had been hit this hard in the head, sure as hell wouldn’t be the last time either, but goddamn did this part of the process suck. He took a moment or two in order to collect whatever thoughts he could cling to before speaking up. “You got a name there, stranger?”

 

The question made the man straighten his shoulders and cross his arms firmly across his chest. “Hanzo.”

 

McCree nodded. He decided not to press any further; he knew a guarded man when he saw one, and knew the dangers that came along with giving a total stranger a name. “Well then, Mr. Hanzo-”

 

“Just ‘Hanzo’.” He whispered in a clipped voice, his furrowed brow saying all the rest.

 

The gunslinger offered up a weak smile and tugged at the brim of his hat gently. “Jesse McCree. A pleasure.”

 

His new companion wasted no time getting to his point. “You claimed that you could help me.” Hanzo stared hard down at him. “Explain. Quickly.”

 

For such a sharp man, McCree couldn’t help but chuckle at how blunt his speech was. “Nothin’ to explain. Bandits only do two things: kill an’ loot. You’re ain’t dead, so that leaves lootin’.” He instinctively reached for his side pocket where he kept his cigarillos, but found nothing. _Fucking bandits._ “I reckon we’re birds of a feather in that regard.”

 

Hanzo shifted in place with his arms still crossed, though McCree could tell he had hit the nail right on the head. “I still do not see how you could assist me in this matter.”

 

“Well, the idea is I help you get your stuff, you help me get my stuff, an’ then we get the hell outta here soon as we can. Figure I owe you one after you untied me an’ all.” When his only response was a single raised eyebrow, McCree sighed and decided to switch to a different tactic, his voice low and his words carefully chosen. “Look, I know bandits, an’ I know these sort of camps they’ve got here. I can help.”

 

There was a long, tense pause that made all of the hairs on the back of his neck itch with a nervous energy. The gunslinger thought initially it had simply been Hanzo’s way of assuring he wouldn’t go back on his word, but as the man opened his mouth to answer, his eyes fixated on the curtain-door with a palpable trepidation. Sparing a cautionary glance to the ground beneath the doorframe, McCree saw the toes of boots. Two sets of boots, to be precise. One set was turned to the right, most likely towards the wooden post, while the other was facing towards the hut, though further back than the first.

“Mother of- Skagshit got loose!”

 

“C’mon, little shit can’t be far. Check the hut.”

 

McCree’s eyes jumped back to Hanzo’s, who was already looking back at him with a sudden sense of urgency. Barely a second passed where everything was still before Hanzo leaped to one side of the doorframe. _Light on his toes,_ the gunslinger mused to himself as he watched him pull out a gun. Dahl Repeater, he reckoned; probably stole it from some unlucky bandit. It was good to be armed, but he wondered if a gun would wind up doing more harm than good and warn the entire camp of their presence. McCree hoped Hanzo was bright enough to realize this; he brought a finger up to his lips, slowly, as if it the movement could reveal their position.

 

Hanzo’s jaw twitched once, but he nodded nevertheless. McCree rose to his feet and joined him on the other side of the doorframe, his spurs jingling softly with every step. He offered a sheepish grin and a shrug to his companion at the sound, who in turn pinched the bridge of his nose.

 

Everything happened far too fast. The two bandits shuffled into the caravan shack not a moment after, and the strangers were on them in an instant. Hanzo slammed the butt of the gun on the top of the shorter one’s head, the bandit crumpling to the ground with a surprised shout of “Tabarnac!”. In the same instant, McCree hooked his left arm around the other’s neck and pulled hard, until their gasps for air were silenced. When he felt no more struggles against his hold, the gunslinger heaved the unconscious bandit into the corner alongside the other.

 

McCree couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped his lips after the dust settled. “Well, I reckon I just gave you a reason to believe me now.”

 

“Perhaps.” Hanzo’s eyes glanced back and forth between the bandits, the floor, and McCree himself. “...You are certain you are able to guide us through this camp?”

 

“Sure can do. Won’t be without a fight, mind you, but I can guarantee we’ll be outta here with our things ‘fore you even know it.” He punctuated his words with a tip of his hat and a small grin. “What’dya say, partner?”

 

“I’d say that it is very possible one, or both of us, will end up in a pool of our own blood in the end.” Hanzo shot back a half-cocked smirk of his own at the other man. “Let us see if we cannot defy those odds.”

 

A proper smile graced McCree’s lips at that. “Well then, Hanzo, I reckon we’ve got ourselves a deal then.”

 

\---

 

 _Light on his toes,_ McCree thought. It was damn near insulting how much of an understatement that phrase was in describing how eerily silent this Hanzo fellow moved. Without his spurs the cowboy considered himself fairly stealthy when he needed to be, but his new partner-in-crime took that to a whole new level. In the time it took McCree to blink once, Hanzo would go from being right on his six to somehow nearly fifty feet ahead and crouched behind a barrel. It could be worse, now that he thought about it, though; at least the sly rogue had the decency to wait for him to catch up before slinking on ahead through the shadows. One thing was for certain: the way he prowled about really made the gunslinger start to wonder what the hell a guy like him could do with a _real_ weapon.

 

Glancing around at the center of the camp from their position behind a shipping unit, McCree nodded towards the building ahead of them. “Alright, this is it.”

 

Just as he had predicted, the bandits at this camp seemed to be using one of the larger hangars towards the back of the camp as their main stash. On any other day, McCree would have been more inclined to look inside wayward crates and safes found all around the camp, but if what those two knuckleheads from the fire pit had said was true, then they would have just gotten new loot to sell, scavenge for parts, or deal out as they saw fit. Hanzo’s arrival was too perfect to be coincidental.

 

“How are you certain?” The man kneeling beside him asked in a hushed voice.

 

“Two reasons.” McCree held up a gloved finger. “One, dumb bandits keep all their fancy shit in one spot, like that there hangar.”

 

“And the second reason?”

 

He brought up a second finger with a chuckle, “All bandits are dumb bandits.”

 

Hanzo rolled his eyes with a sigh. “Your logic astounds me.”

 

“Wait ‘til you see my aim then, partner.” McCree motioned for him to follow as they crouched forward to the open entrance of the aforementioned hangar.

 

The main lights in the camp had shut off with an audible buzz about ten minutes ago, and he was sure it was approaching midnight at this point, but the gunslinger didn’t want to count them in the clear just yet. He kept his eyes on the windows and the towers, looking for any sign of life or light in either one. Hanzo appeared to be doing the same, and just before they reached the top of the ramp leading up to the hangar doorway, McCree saw the other’s hand shoot out in front of him.

 

The stranger said nothing but kept a finger to his lips, mimicking McCree from earlier, and brought his other hand back to point to the right. Sitting in rickety lawn chair on the porch not too far from the ramp was a snoring masked guard, their chest rising and falling in a slow rhythmic pattern. McCree instinctively drew a shallow breath, and briefly wondered just how out of it he truly was for him to miss that _._

 

McCree moved first, edging his way towards the door while Hanzo kept watch over the sleeping figure in the chair.  The cowboy slipped his hand between the crack in the reinforced tin door and pulled it forward; the faint creak the rusty piece of metal gave off might as well have been a firecracker at that moment. They both flinched at the sound, and McCree’s heart plummeted to bottom of his stomach.  He watched the guard snort loudly and shift in their chair. Neither one of them moved a muscle.

 

They took their cue to move from the snoring that started back up as if nothing had happened. McCree, then Hanzo following swiftly behind, entered the hangar space and shut the door with a gentle click. His chest hammered and he shot a look at Hanzo, who looked only slightly better off himself.

 

“...Well that could’a been worse.”

 

“McCree-”

 

He pressed his lips into a thin line and nodded firmly. “Right, right. Guns first, banter later.”

 

Looking around, the open two-story hangar space appeared empty. No lights on, no more sleeping guards, nothing. Just sheet metal walls, and several large crates and caches strewn about the bottom floor as well as the upper level, from what he could see. Hanzo wasted no time taking in the scenery; as soon as McCree had turned to give him the ‘okay’, he was flitting about the room busily, inspecting container after container with a hardened look on his face.

 

With his partner busy, McCree took the time to look for his own things. The cigarillos were good as gone, he figured; bandits can’t appreciate a proper smoke and there weren’t many left to begin with. Money, too. The only thing he could hope and pray for was that _none_ of them touched his gun. ‘Course, all that hoping and praying didn’t exactly put the damn thing in his hands.

 

What he did have his hands on was quite the find, though: a large metal case, half-buried in an ammo crate he had been sifting through, with a pair of etched dragons twisting their lithe bodies across the front and a far fancier lock than what he was used to. It was a simple teal screen with a oval shape in the center, a thumb-print scan if he had to guess. He was almost considering trying the lock anyways for shits and giggles when it was ripped from his hands with an astounding speed and force that made him tumble back flat on his ass.

 

Hanzo set the case on the floor and pressed his finger against the screen without so much as a word to McCree. The screen lit up, beeped once, and the latches on the sides clicked all at once. Peering over the man’s shoulder, McCree saw pieces of a metal jigsaw puzzle that would have taken him years to figure out. Hanzo’s hands were a blur, fitting this part to that, and in an instant, the jigsaw was complete and a deadly bow of deep blues and silvers was the final picture. The finishing touch to the archer’s image was the quiver of arrows hidden underneath the bottom of the case.

 

 _That’s more like it._ McCree smirked at the immediate mood improvement to his currently silent companion, who was running his hands along the limbs of the contraption with a smile as if he was shaking hands with an old friend.  “Like comin’ home, ain’t it?”

 

Snapping out of his trance, Hanzo slung the quiver over his back and stood to his feet. “Come. We must hurry. The bandits will not stay that way forever.”

 

“Alright, hold your horses there, we got time.” McCree returned to the rest of the crates to sift through the various odds and ends that filled them. “Ain’t nearly as fancy as that there bow of yours, but my gun’s still my gun, an’ I ain’t leavin’ without-”

 

“Looking for something, assclown?”

 

McCree winced and turned slowly towards the source of the familiar voice. A tall and lanky bandit stood leaning up against in the doorway and behind that cracked mask of theirs, the gunless cowboy could see the corners of their eyes quirk up dangerously. The decorative spur at the end of the gun in the bandit’s hand jangled slightly as they pointed it forward at them.

 

“Heh. See what I did there, assclown? It’s called 'consistency'.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI FOLKS IM NOT DEAD I SWEAR!!
> 
> long story short, old computer sorta kinda broke and it took a while to finally get a new one but yea im back and ready to...frack (idk where i was going with that) but ye!!
> 
> thanks for all of y'all's support in this lil project of me and cicada's!! it means so much to the both of us that you all are as invested in this lil au as we are!!
> 
> as usual, you can find the amazing cicada over [here](http://thetiniestcicada.tumblr.com/) and me over [here](http://aerihead.tumblr.com/) on tumblr !! feel free to send questions, comments, or if you just wanna scream along with us!!


	4. OH MY GOD RUN YOU LOSERS RUN

 

The door slammed behind Cracked Mask with a resounding bang that reminded the Vault Hunter far too much of the gun in the bandit’s hand. He scowled fiercely. No, not just _the_ gun- it was _his gun._ His pride and joy. One of the only things he actually gave a damn about these days, and it was currently being manhandled by some smart-ass, no-name punk in a shitty mask. The part of him that wasn’t being held up at gunpoint was sitting rather nicely on a few choice words he’d be more than happy to share, yet he held his tongue all the same. And by ‘held’, he meant he bit down on his tongue hard enough to taste copper.

 

Bringing his arms up above his head, McCree watched as Hanzo joined him in staring hard at the bandit. From an untrained eye, his new companion might have appeared to have taken on a passive stance, setting his bow down on the ground and raising his own arms above his head as well; McCree, however, was no ‘untrained eye’. Even just sparing a glance to the side, he could see the unmistakable look of someone analyzing their surroundings, of going through every possible outcome of every possible action, and of visualising a plan in motion.

 

McCree fixed his eyes back on the bandit before them, looking them up and down for his own analysis.

 

 _Cocky, more so with a gun in their hand. Not stupid though. Knows the plan for turnin’ me in, knows what killin’ me outright would mean for the bounty. No alarm, probably thinks they can take care of us all by themself. Keep ‘em talkin’._ _Hanzo’s got somethin’._ _Probably._

 

“You know, I gotta hand it to him after all.” Cracked Mask walked closer, their boots clanking loudly all the while. “Here I was thinking Deanie was just being paranoid when he wanted five guys watching your ass.”

 

“Aw, shucks, you mean to tell me he wanted to do all that for lil’ ol’ me? An’ here I didn’t get ol’ Deanie nothin’. Damn, I gotta make it up somehow. Get him a nice coupon book or something.” McCree shot a cursory glance at Hanzo. “You think he’d like a fruit basket?”

 

“Cute effort, but I ain’t falling for that shit.” The bandit continued forward until they were only a few dozen feet in front of the duo, the gun in their hand still pointed at them. “Look, I’m not in a talking mood today, so how about you just cram it already, assclown-”

 

He clicked his tongue with a smirk. “Ain’t nobody tell you a joke’s only funny three times-”

 

“I said,” McCree heard the small click of the gun’s safety being turned off. “-Cram it. Don’t think I don’t know what you’re up to, jackass. I was at the firepit, remember? I knew what you were planning the whole time you were egging on my buddy there, trying to keep him busy while you were doing whatever you were doing .”

 

“Up to? Plannin’? Doin’?” He feigned a look of surprise, looking back and forth between Hanzo and the bandit. His companion’s face was like stone, his expression as cold and calculating as before. “Well, shoot, sugarbean, I don’t have the faintest idea what this fella here’s talkin’ ‘bout. Might be confusin’ me for some other dashin’ outlaw they got locked up here.”

 

He could practically hear them rolling their eyes, as well as Hanzo’s beside him. “Of course you don’t, chatterbox. You and your little friend there are just sooo innocent, huh? A couple ‘a real upstanding citizens, the lot of you.”

 

McCree could feel Hanzo fierce stare shift from him to the bandit and immediately felt bad for the one on the receiving end of it. “I mean, to be fair, my lil’ friend here ain’t really the one with the bounty on his head so-”

 

The archer’s hardened features lightened as he shot the man next to him a wicked half-grin. “Hm. That you know of.”

 

“Oh? That so?” McCree arched up an eyebrow at that. “What, you ‘bout to tell me you’re some kind of secret bad boy-”

 

“What did I just fucking say, you skagshits?!”

 

“Right. Crammin’ it.” Still, McCree couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled out of him as he held up his hands higher. He would almost call this ‘fun’ were there not the potential of being on the receiving end of a bullet. Then again, he had called far more dangerous situations ‘fun’ in the past, so, really, that was neither here nor there.

 

“You know, you’re really lucky your bounty’s worth more alive than dead. Don’t make a lick of sense to me; I figured the price of shutting you up once and for all would be worth way more to some folks.” Cracked Mask all but spat at him, swinging the gun to face him directly. “But those wanted posters never really state how alive they want you in the end. Sure as shit makes my job a whole lot more interesting, if you ask me.”

 

“Well, in the end, it’s just nice to be _wanted_ -”

 

“I swear, if you don’t shut your fucking mouth this time-”

 

“McCree, get down!”

 

In an instant he felt a strong hand pull him to a crouched stance; then there was a brief sound of something flying through the air, followed by a shot from a gun; both sounds were quickly swallowed by a flash of light and a piercing ring.

 

_\---_

 

McCree recalled flashes of the scene itself: Hanzo stooping low to grab something, the bandit’s arm still raised in the air after the shot, an arrow flying, a muted cry of pain and then only ringing. Ringing, and that blinding whiteness. He wasn’t entirely sure how long he had been out of it per say, but when he did come out of the fog in his mind, everything hurt all at once and he felt dizzy- well, even more dizzy than he already was. It was like he was tied back to the post again, with Hanzo nudging him into consciousness; only this time, it wasn’t so much as a gentle waking as it was a slap to the face and a command to _move._

 

He nearly tumbled ass over tea-kettle when a hand hooked around his forearm and yanked him forward. Pushing through the haze, McCree found his vision returning to him slowly but steadily. The hand was Hanzo’s, who was all but dragging the poor man along as they dashed through the hangar and through one of the open side doors that led back out to the camp. McCree’s legs felt heavy and the world felt as though it was spinning like a merry-go-round, but the gunslinger forced himself to keep up with Hanzo’s rapid pace.

 

The spinning and turning finally came to a screeching halt when his and Hanzo’s backs met the wall of the hangar outside with a thud, the bow on the archer’s back rattling noisily as the door shut behind them with a bang. The space between them and the rocky cliffsides the bandit camp was nestled up against was suffocating at best, and he swore he could hear his heart beating in his eardrums. Out of breath and panting heavily, McCree turned to his partner, a broken “What-” barely leaving his lips before he was given an answer.

 

“Flash grenade. I found one back in the hangar.”

 

Gripping his hat, McCree let out a short whistle. “Hot damn. Reckon I oughta invest in some’a those myself.”

 

“If you want to live to see that investment through, then you should focus on the situation at hand.” Hanzo replied briskly, slipping the bow from his shoulders just as the first of the alarms sounded. Bandit alarms in camps like these were scarcely more than someone angrily yelling gibberish into a PA system, but it did its job well enough; McCree found himself wincing in pain at the horrible din that followed shortly thereafter. The frantic shouts and barked orders as well as the heavy footfalls of bandits and psychos alike throughout the compound all came together to form a deafening cacophony of noise and sound.

 

His companion, on the other hand, seemed unaffected by the sudden uproar, and was about as collected as he had been inside the hangar; McCree watched the archer skillfully and swiftly pulled three arrows from his quiver and held them tightly between his gloved fingers as he moved to peer around the corner. When he heard the man swear under his breath and dip back behind cover, he cautiously took up the position near the edge of the wall and leered outwards.

 

The armory hangar itself was located at the back of the camp, giving the gunslinger a decent view of all three watchtowers as well as the main gate itself. The problem didn’t so much lie in the distance between them and the gate as it did with the path they needed to take. Whereas their previous trek through the camp had been relatively quiet, with scarcely a soul to be seen save for the tower guards, McCree now saw bandits emerging from every hut and every crevice around the compound, all heavily armed and ready to fire at a moment’s notice. He started counting instinctively only to lose track somewhere around fifteen.

 

“Well?”

 

McCree fought back a dry laugh and turned to shoot a half-grin behind him. “You want brutal honesty, or sugar-coatin’?”

 

Hanzo scowled. “What are our options, cowboy?”

 

“Easy there, archer. Jus’ tryin’ to-”

 

Those wicked eyes narrowed fiercely at him. “ _McCree_.”

 

“Alright, alright.” He turned his attention towards the campgrounds with a sigh. “Well, don’t think I gotta tell you ‘makin’ a break for it’ is outta the question, an’ with that damn alarm goin’ off, everyone’s on high alert, so there goes sneakin’ outta here.” He glanced up to the towers with a shake of his head. “Hell, even if we take out those fellas up there, we still got all the others to deal with. One or two bandits on their own ain’t much of a threat, but more than a dozen of those fuckers an’ you start havin’ a real problem.”

 

“Hm. And where is the largest group of them?”

 

“Largest? Ah…‘bout a hundred feet to the left, by the first watchtower.” He whipped his head back just in time to see Hanzo sheathing his previous arrows and retrieving another from the quiver. Looking and down from his companion’s face to the arrow and back again, McCree cocked one eyebrow upwards. “You reckon you got an idea, Hanzo?”

 

“Just one.” He watched the faintest of smirks toy on the man’s lips. “Stand aside, and be ready to move as soon as I say so.” The gunslinger knew a command when he heard one, and shuffled around to make room for Hanzo along the side of the hangar.

 

Crouching low on one knee, the archer drew back the arrow in his bow and McCree watched in amazement as the arrowhead split into several pieces right before Hanzo released the arrow, the lights on the projectile forming a trail of cyan as it sailed through the air with a high-pitched whistle. He heard it impact somewhere on the ground for only a brief moment, and in the blink of an eye, one arrow became many. Blue streaks darted this way and that impossibly fast as the arrows ricocheted on every which angle. More sounds of impacts, shouts and screams of pain cut short as twelve, thirteen, fourteen bandits fell all at once.

 

Fourteen bandits. _Fourteen motherfuckin’ bandits_. All dead from a single arrow.

 

“That...was fuckin’ badass.”

 

“McCree! Move, now!” The archer was already to his feet when McCree turned to look back at him. He nodded firmly, and together the two rushed forward into the fray.

 

The sound of bullets whizzing through the air around them drowned out the blaring alarms as they ran and McCree gripped his hat tightly in hopes of keeping it from flying clear off his head in all the chaos. As they ran he occasionally heard Hanzo grunt briefly before the sound of a few more arrows flying backwards, though he could barely hear much of anything at this point over the rapid drumming of his heart and the ringing from… everything. The flash grenade. The bullets. The whistle of the arrows. It all rang. It all hurt. He needed to push through, to keep running.

 

A booming voice came on over the loudspeaker just then. “Take ‘em out, boys! Forget about that damn bounty; I wanna see their heads roll clean off!”

 

“I saw them over here! Shoot ‘em, shoot ‘em!”

 

 _Run, don’t think. Don’t listen. Just run_. That’s all he needed to do. The gate was close, Hanzo was right behind him. His quiver was empty, but it didn’t matter. They were running, ducking behind every bit of cover any moment they could and sprinting when their pursuers stopped to reload their guns. The camp was alive with angry voices that called out to them from all around.

 

He only stopped to howl at the white-hot pain that shot through his lower left leg with a hollow thump. He stumbled, crumbled, fell, and he rolled end over end until he hit something hard. He heard a voice cry out to him, Hanzo’s voice, maybe; but the pain in his leg and his head made it harder and harder to focus.

 

Hanzo was at his side a moment later, hooking his arm underneath him and speaking to him rapidly; yet, his words and the rest of the sounds around him were muted as if McCree himself were underwater.

 

Move? Get up? He wanted to, but he couldn’t. His body wasn’t listening to him. All McCree could do was cry out loudly when the archer attempted to move him, a surge of energy briefly lighting up every nerve in his body before he slumped back to the ground heavily. More urgent words to him from Hanzo, but they were far less clear. He was falling deeper beneath the surface of the water, and his eyelids felt heavy.

 

There was a low hum, then a sharp crackle like a thousand whips wildly snapping in the air, and then an unbelievably radiant light.

 

And then it all was swallowed up by darkness.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this just in: local writer loves roughing up the boys. more at 11.
> 
> as usual, you can find the amazing cicada over [here](http://thetiniestcicada.tumblr.com/) and me over [here](http://aerihead.tumblr.com/) on tumblr


	5. I Need Healing

  
**\-- >ECHO.log#01**

**_\-- >play_ **

 

_“What is-[thum-thu-thu-thump] Shi-!”_

 

**_\-- >end of recording_ **

_\---------------_

**\-- >ECHO.log#02**

**_\-- >play_ **

 

_“...Is… Was that the on-.”_

 

**_\-- >end of recording_ **

_\---------------_

**_\-- >ECHO.log#04_ **

**_\-- >play_ **

 

_“Uh… Day one. Or… [small beeps] -No, it would be the second day, I think. [sigh] Pandora’s rotation period seems to be similar to...what I am used to, though in truth I cannot say for certain. It has been hard to properly find my bearings; this planet has a… curious way of greeting new inhabitants.”_

 

_“As for the outlaw… He is unresponsive, but alive and breathing steadily despite everything. A bullet wound to the lower calf, heavily concussed, and I believe a few nerve endings in his prosthetic might have sustained some damage as well. His head injury appears to be the worst of it but there is little I can do to treat that. The leg has been healing well though. Clean exit wound, no sign of further damage... [groan and another sigh] What am I even doing? I feel ridiculous; I am not a doctor. ”_

 

**_\-- >end of recording_ **

_\---------------_

**\-- >ECHO.log#07**

**_\-- >play_ **

 

_“Day three. He regained consciousness earlier today, though he was still dazed and confused. His speech was slurred, but I think he thanked me. He struggled to recall the events at the camp, which is to be expected. He managed to eat some of the rations that I had laid out, as well as drink some water before falling asleep again. It’s... progress, at the very least.”_

 

**_\-- >end of recording_ **

_\--------------_

**\-- >ECHO.log#11**

**_\-- >play_ **

 

_“Day five. Memory and speech have improved somewhat since he first regained consciousness. Loud noises and bright lights still trouble him, but he is recovering nevertheless. To my surprise, the ECHOnet on this planet is acceptable. With it, I have been able to research more on the proper care for head injuries and-”_

 

_“ [rustling] Han…? S’that...that you?”_

 

_“My apologies, I did not mean to wake you. Lie back down. I will wake you in an hour. Rest until then.”_

 

_“Huh…? Mm-hm…’kay. ‘Night.”_

 

_“...Goodnight.”_

 

**_\-- >end of recording_ **

_\--------------_

**_\-- >ECHO.log#15_ **

**_\-- >play_ **

 

_“Day six. He is far less sensitive to lights and sounds, and is able to stay awake longer during the day. His memory as well has seen similar improvements. While comforting to some degree, I still find myself struggling to understand why I have taken it upon myself to care for his injuries in the first place. I suppose I do owe our survival in part to his knowledge of the layout of the camp, even if retrieving this gun of his nearly got me shot in the process.”_

 

_“...I will admit, though: I am curious to see just how this Jesse McCree earned himself such a high bounty on a planet like Pandora.”_

_\-------------_

 

Hanzo clicked the stop button on the device and set it down on the table to his right. It had become something of a habit these past few days. He would wake up, step outside to record a new entry in the ECHO device, and afterwards duck back inside to check on the injured man who spent most of the day resting and recovering inside the small motel room.

 

Well, he assumed it was a motel room, or had been one at one time, if the nearly illegible large welcome sign out front was anything to go by. It was truly hard to tell just by appearances alone, however; the windows were boarded up with wood so old and rotted it looked like charcoal, garbage littered the horrendously-stained shag carpeting, and the only pieces of furniture were a beat-up side table with a missing leg and a lone cot to the far corner of the claustrophobically small room. He felt as though he could contract tetanus just by looking around.

 

It was also the safest place he had encountered since coming to Pandora.

 

A muted groan from beyond the door to his left had been his cue to pocket the device he had put on the table and to stand up from the rickety chair. Hanzo grunted as he was nearly forced to shoulder-tackle the rusty old door open, the hinges squealing in protest all the while. The room flooded with a low morning light, and with it came another moan of pain from the man lying on the cot under the mound of red cloth.

 

“Whoever told the sun to rise can go fuck off.” The outlaw’s voice was hoarse with sleep and rough as sandpaper, but not slurred and far clearer than it had been in the last couple of days. Hanzo noted this in the back of his mind after he closed the door behind him. Striding over to the man’s side, he reached into a box by the cot to retrieve a roll of gauze. He had just begun to unravel the gauze when McCree reached his one arm out from under his serape to hastily grab at it, only to wince as he rolled against his injured leg.

 

Hanzo sighed. He could feel an indent forming just below his piercings from how often he found himself pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration with this man. “One would think you would learn not to move like that after the third or fourth time.”  

 

“Do I look like the sorta guy who learns from shit after three or four times?” As if to prove a point, he held up what remained of his left arm and gestured towards the nightstand where the rest of the arm lied. When that only earned a raised eyebrow from the archer, McCree slumped back against the wall with a frown and stuck out his leg from underneath his makeshift blanket. “Fine. Have it your way, doc.”  

 

“You will find ‘my way’ involves a far slimmer chance of reopening your wound.” Hanzo turned his focus towards the darkened bandages and began to unwrap them carefully.

 

“Ain’t like I haven’t had to patch myself up one-handed before, y’know.” He could hear the childish pout in his voice, though he did not look up at McCree as he peeled away the last layer of the bandages on his leg. With only so much as a short hum in response, the archer reached into one of the boxes under the bed for the disinfectant.

 

This too had become a habit as of late; McCree, despite his whining and moaning, would reluctantly let Hanzo redress the wound and the two would fall into a comfortable yet odd silence. Or perhaps it was an oddly comfortable silence. Either way, he was glad that someone on this impossibly strange planet could appreciate the still quietness without screaming in order to break it. That is, of course, until he was given a firm reminder of Rule Two.

 

“Y’know… you never did tell me why you came to Pandora.”

 

Hanzo’s hand, holding the spray bottle, hesitated for a moment in the air before he pressed his lips into a thin line and continued his work, albeit with stiffer movements than before. “I do not recall saying that I wasn’t from Pandora.”

 

“Didn’t have to.” The outlaw turned his attention lazily towards the barricaded window. “S’not hard to tell a local from everyone else who winds up here.”

 

“Is it now?” Setting the bottle aside, Hanzo moved to begin looping the bandages once more. The swelling had yet to fully subside, and he heard the occasional hiss from above as the bandage tightened somewhat around the man’s calf. “Enlighten me, then.”

 

“Well, for starters,” He held up a finger on his right hand. “-you didn’t greet me with the traditional Pandoran salute.”

 

That made him look up to him with a look of confusion. “The what?”

 

“Y’know, the Pandoran salute: two shotgun rounds to the face an’ a buzz-axe to the head. ” McCree smirked. “The order ain’t important.”

 

Hanzo grimaced at the gruesome mental image. “I cannot tell if you are messing with me or not.”

 

“Yeah, me neither.” McCree admitted with a more sheepish grin. “Pandora’s cruel like that. S’why I know you ain’t from here.”

 

“Because I am not cruel?”

 

“More or less.” Hanzo watched the man’s eyes dart downwards towards his hands before continuing. “I mean, you’re patchin’ up the leg of not only a stranger, but a man with a bounty on his head. Most folks would’a jus’ turned the poor bastard in for the money an’ call it a day.”

 

He scowled, though his words were slightly guarded. “The money is of little interest to me.”

 

“Yeah well, all that means is that you risked your life to save some random-ass stranger from a buncha trigger-happy bandits without wantin’ nothin’ in the end.”

 

The archer fell silent at that, his hands faltering somewhat as he finished tying the bandages. He could try to give the man some sort of rebuttal to his observation, some sort of explanation as to why he had taken it upon himself to help out a complete stranger, bounty or not, but it would be a half-assed answer as any.

 

“Don’t get me wrong, partner; I ain’t complainin’.” McCree grunted as he shifted forward on the cot to roll down his left pant leg.“Ain’t tryin’ to pry neither. Don’t have to tell me nothin’ if you don’t wanna. Just figure a man’s gotta have a reason or two to be all the way out here, of all places.”

 

Hanzo scoffed dryly. “I could just as easily ask the same of you, outlaw.”

 

“Easy there. Ain’t tryin’ to step on anyone’s toes.” McCree held up his one hand in mock defense, an easy smile on his face all the while. “I’m not like those bandits back at the camp, if that’s what you’re gettin’ at.”

 

“So I had gathered.”

 

“Aw, really? What gave it away? Was it my good looks,” McCree said with a flourish as he ran his hand through the tangled mass of brown hair atop his head. “-or my great personality?”

 

“I would say it was a tie between your ability to form coherent sentences, and the distinct lack of a bloodied mask.” His lips curled into a smirk of his own as he added, as if in an afterthought: “Though the spurs did make me reconsider for a moment.”

 

The not-bandit snorted humorously at the jab and reached over on the nightstand to pull the metal arm onto his lap, where he then began to poke and tinker with the various pieces of wiring and panels. As they fell back into a somewhat more stifling and awkward silence than the one from earlier, Hanzo decided to take this momentary break in conversation to stand up and walk over to the window, checking their surroundings outside through the slits between the planks of wood. As usual, there was nothing. Nothing but rocks, open road, and a few broken-down vehicles that looked so rusted that they would crumple into dust at the slightest touch.

 

“So… What now?”

 

The sudden question came as a surprise to Hanzo and he turned back toward McCree with a cautious stare. “What do you mean?”

 

“Well, you know,” McCree set the arm down on the cot, moving to wrap the deep red blanket around his shoulders. “-after I’m all patched up, right as rain. What do we do? What’s our plan?”

 

 _Our plan_ . _We. Not ‘what will you do’ or ‘what’s your plan’._ Was that to mean McCree had not planned on leaving immediately after he was fit enough to do so?

 

Hanzo’s eyes widened before he cast them down in thought. “I… had assumed you had your own business to attend to, an... occupation, before you were captured.”

 

“Occupation… Yeah, I reckon that’s one word for it.” McCree let out a breathy chuckle, resting his arm against his knee and gesturing lazily with his hand as he continued. “Listen, archer, here on Pandora, you’ve got one of two options: you can either give in to the bad an’ become one’a them bandit folks, or you try an’ do good,” He paused to give a half-hearted shrug. “-fail at that miserably, an’ become a Vault Hunter."

 

Vault Hunter. A term this man threw around nonchalantly as if he were stating the weather, yet one that Hanzo had grown up hearing attached to tales of glory and adventure, of violence and bloodshed. They were quite literally the stuff of legends, and not all of those legends cast them in a pleasant light. The offhanded comment McCree made back at the camp about ‘having worse’ suddenly made much more sense to the archer.

 

Hanzo began to gather his loose hair up into its usual knot, his fingers working through the nervous energy as it ran its course. “...How far is the nearest town to us?”

 

“Well, that all depends.” McCree scratched at the scruff of his beard. “Closest town is technically Overlook, ‘bout a few miles down the road there. But I take it you’re more lookin’ for a place like Gibraltar. Ain’t many places a fella can go on Pandora without gettin’ shot at or eaten by somethin’, an’ even fewer outside Gibraltar city limits. From here I reckon it’s a solid... day or two? Haven’t been out that way in a long while. Why do you ask?”

 

Crossing his arms firmly across his chest, Hanzo shifted his focus back to McCree. He thought about his next words carefully and spoke in an even tone. “I would be interested in expanding upon our deal back at the camp.”

 

McCree gave him a puzzled look. “Expandin’? How so?”

 

“You said it earlier yourself: Pandora is cruel. And… you were correct to assume I do not know this planet as you do. Therefore, I require your assistance in the matter.” Hanzo stood up straighter and held his head just a bit higher as he continued. “You will act as a guide in a manner of speaking, not only in regards to Pandora’s geography, but its inhabitants and customs as well. I have made plans to stay on this planet for some time, and I see myself only benefitting from learning its strange ways.”

 

The man nodded pensively. “An’ I’m assumin’ I’ll be gettin’ somethin’ outta this lil’ job? You know how it goes: ain’t nothin’ in this world for free.”

 

He resisted the urge to remind McCree of the fact that he had saved his life on a whim, and clicked his tongue. “As I have mentioned previously, money is not an issue. I will provide you with suitable payment at the end of this task, as well as pay for any expenses we should encounter.”

 

McCree’s eyebrow raised slyly at that. “...Any?”

 

“Within reason.”

 

“Does bourbon count as ‘within reason’?”

 

“...Perhaps.”

 

“Guess we’ll table that for another time then.” He watched McCree sit up further on the cot, his posture less relaxed than it had been throughout their discussion. “So lemme see if I got this straight: I’m to keep you from gettin’ lost or shot at here on Pandora, act as your lil’ bodyguard an’ keep you safe from all those mean sumbitches out there…”

 

Hanzo’s brow furrowed and he stepped forward, enough to where the other was looking up at him. McCree visibly stiffened at the sudden movement, briefly matching the archer’s hardened expression with one of his own before it gave way to one of uncertainty. “Let me make myself clear to you, Vault Hunter: I require your skills, and your knowledge, but do _not_ underestimate me. I am in no way defenseless.”

 

“Never doubted it for a second, darlin’.” He was surprised to see the Vault Hunter flash a small grin, and watched his hand move to tip a hat that wasn’t there. “I’m just surprised someone with your skills looked to lil’ ol’ me for a helpin’ hand, so to speak.”

 

The archer’s eyes narrowed slightly at him, scanning his features for any sort of twitch or tell that would key Hanzo into an ulterior meanings to his words, but the tension in his shoulders dropped when he found nothing but honesty written across the man’s face. “What is your answer?”

 

McCree shifted, the cot squeaking under his weight as he rested his head against his hand. Hanzo watched his expression slowly morph into one of a man in deep thought; his eyes stared down at the ground, though held little focus to them; his lips were pursed into a thin line, and there was the faint sound of his fingers rapping against his cheek. After a long pause, the man sighed loudly. “...Hell, know what? I’m game.”

 

“You’ll do it then?”

 

“Someone’s gotta pay you back for savin’ my hide after all. Seems fittin’ it be me. So yeah, I reckon we got ourselves a deal, then.” The Vault Hunter moved to get up, only to buckle as he attempted to put weight on his knee. He hissed something under his breath; a swear, or maybe just a sharp intake of breath at the sting of pain, before settling back down on the cot, patting the metal arm that bumped up against his hip. “I’ve got some business out there I gotta tend to anyways.”

 

“Very well.” Hanzo nodded, and shook the hand that was offered out to him in the next moment firmly. “I am interested to see what one of Pandora’s Vault Hunters is truly capable of.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as usual, you can find the amazing cicada over [here](http://thetiniestcicada.tumblr.com/) and me over [here](http://aerihead.tumblr.com/) on tumblr!!


	6. Like Sitting Ducks

“So… A bow, huh?”

 

Hanzo did not move from his perch atop the rocky ledge, though he did briefly cast his eyes down below to look at McCree. The man was sitting with his back to the rock he had positioned himself behind and was boredly picking at a loose thread on his serape; in many ways, he reminded Hanzo of a child who had been told to wait quietly in the car while his parents went off to run a few errands. With a short grunt, he turned back towards the stretch of road before them.

 

The view from within the canyon itself was nothing spectacular to behold: tall pewter gray cliffs bisected by a single strip of asphalt that stretched on for miles, the trail curling and coiling over hills and mountains in the distance as the moonlight enveloped the scene in a strange pale-blue glow. A howling wind coasted high up above close to the top of the gully, and Hanzo was more than a little grateful that a majority of the chilling nightly air was blocked by the rocky walls around him.

 

It had been about a few days since they had made their deal, mostly to ensure McCree had recovered enough to actually be of use in their travels, and in that time, Hanzo had learned two things about the strangely dressed Vault Hunter. 

 

One was that he talked. A lot. He’d greet Hanzo first thing in the morning, and ask him how he was doing. He’d mumble through his thoughts as he dressed himself. He would repeatedly try to engage in conversation with Hanzo even if he was given no response in return. One time Hanzo even heard him muttering something as he slept, though he didn’t quite catch what he was saying. It wasn’t just talking to fill the silence, though; it was more like he was trying to make sure it just didn’t exist to begin with. 

 

It wasn’t terrible per se. Pandora was a place of action, of spontaneity, and of sound, more importantly. McCree himself was no different; he was quite the entertainer in the stories he’d tell of his daring adventures, and he adapted them to make them as big and as loud as possible for his small, comparatively quieter audience, though not too loud. He knew his surroundings well, and knew when to play it safe.

 

That brought Hanzo to the second conclusion about McCree: he was adaptive. Smarter than he appeared, and more observant than Hanzo initially had thought. After all, he had been the one to come up with the plan in the first place, approaching the archer just as he was preparing to settle in for his nightly watch. 

 

“Here’s the thing: I’m down a hammerin’ arm, but know my way ‘round. You’re a badass shot, but don’t know skag from slag. An’ as nice as walkin’ for god knows how long ‘til we get to Gibraltar sounds, I’m thinkin’ our chances are gonna be a hell of a lot better if we get ourselves a set of wheels.”

 

His interest piqued, Hanzo had tilted his head towards McCree and had raised an eyebrow at him. “And how are we supposed to do that?” 

 

The Vault Hunter had tapped his forehead. “I’ve got a plan.”

 

“Is it a good plan?”

 

“Probably not.”

 

Hanzo had crossed his arms across his chest and had pinched the bridge of his nose with a long sigh. “What is your plan?”

 

McCree had smiled at him wickedly, and had gestured toward the window. “I’ve been hearin’ lotta commotion out there lately, lotta motors runnin’ ‘round an’ causin’ a ruckus. Caught me off-guard since you don’t see much of them bandits an’ their fancy technicals out this way; the lot of ‘em tend to stick to the Dusts. But I know what I heard out there last night, an’ it sure as shit wasn’t no stalker, lemme tell you.”

 

The archer had shaken his head firmly. “Impossible. I was on watch. I would have seen or heard as much myself.”

 

“Yeah, yeah, tell that to the man I found snoozin’ outside this mornin’, why don’cha?” The Vault Hunter had held his hand up in mock defense at the hard glare that he was given in response. “Look, point is, we’ve got ourselves a way outta the Highlands if we get our hands on that tech, but we ain’t got the manpower to jus’ run in, guns an’ bows a blazin’. We need to take our time, an’ play this smart.”

 

Apparently, ‘playing this smart’ meant waiting along a rocky hillside that overlooked the narrow valley, and watching the road that split the canyon in two for any sign of their target.

 

According to McCree’s findings, the bandits weren’t moving sporadically; they followed a specific route at a specific time, and hadn’t deviated from it in the past day or so he had been keeping track of them. He hadn’t been able to figure out where they were coming from, but based on their own proximity to the noise, the one-armed gunslinger had managed to pinpoint the route passing through a valley not too far from the motel.

 

The original plan had been for them to hide out against the canyon walls, wait until nightfall for the bandits to drive through the valley, and pick them off one by one as they drove by in the technical. That is, until the two of them had stumbled upon a yellow barrel behind the motel room that had all but screamed ‘explosion’ in all capital letters, and they had realized it would be much more practical to stop the bandits first with a small rockslide. 

 

Well, ‘practical’ had been Hanzo’s word. ‘Badass’ had been McCree’s.

 

“Don’t have to talk ‘bout your bow none if you don’t want, partner.” He heard the man shifting below and a few metallic clinks from his spurs against the rocks. Or had that been the spur on his gun? Hanzo decided McCree simply had too many spurs for one human being. “Will admit: I am mighty curious ‘bout it though. Design’s too sleek for Dahl or Vladof… Maliwan?”

 

Hanzo did not respond and only shifted his weight against the jutting rock. Luckily, McCree seemed perfectly fine with talking in his companion’s place.

 

“Hm. Certainly ain’t Vishkar, that’s for sure. Don’t see ‘em makin’ too many guns these days.” The jingling of metal continued, followed by the sound of a metal lid being popped off and a sloshing liquid. Hanzo turned his head just enough to see McCree take a swig from a flask and point off to the south. “Too busy buildin’ that city of theirs. Uta...somethin’ or other.”

 

The archer scowled at the sight of the booze. “Now is not the time for that.”

 

“I’m a firm believer there’s always a time for a good drink. Or, hell, even a bad one.” As if to accentuate his point, he threw back another drink from the flask before flashing a smile up at Hanzo. “‘Sides, I already told you: those motorheads ain’t gonna be comin’ for another half hour or so. Might as well pass the time.”

 

“By getting drunk?”

 

“Han, if I was lookin’ to get hammered, I would’a brought a mallet. This stuff’s only good for a buzz.” He held out the flask to Hanzo, gesturing for him to take it. “Want some?”

 

“You are unbelievable.” Despite his words, Hanzo found himself leaning down to grab the canteen from McCree’s hand and taking a brief sip all the same. The sharp burn of the alcohol was immediate. He coughed dryly at the searing fire that coated his throat as it crawled its way down into the pits of his stomach. The taste came afterwards, a horrible mix between spiced rum and window cleaner, and he thrust the flask back towards his now laughing companion, glaring at him fiercely all the while.

 

McCree seemed unfazed by this however, his laughing dying down into a low chuckle as he took it back. “Yeah, it’s designed for function, not flavor.”

 

“The same could be said about motor oil.” Hanzo grimaced when McCree took another long drink from the flask. “How can you stand to drink that filth?”

 

“Hey, you live as long as I have on this hell hole of a planet, an’ suddenly this filth here starts lookin’ pretty damn good.” Capping the metal canteen shut, he clipped it back onto the belt at his waist and settled back into the rocks. “Always did prefer a bit more bite to my liquor.”

 

The archer rolled his eyes and turned his attention back towards the canyon road. “How predictable. Such an unsophisticated taste.”

 

“Yeah? Well, you’re the one who hired this ‘unsophisticated taste’.” McCree tipped back his hat and jutted his head upward towards Hanzo. “So what’s that make you then?”

 

“Desperate. It makes me desperate.”

 

“Oh, now that’s jus’ cold.”

 

“Then it is a good thing you have your spirits to keep you warm.” Hanzo smirked out of the corner of his mouth. “Stay focused. We will drink when the job is done.”

 

\---

 

As McCree had predicted, Hanzo watched the bandits curl around the bend half an hour later. The sounds of their excitable hollering and the roaring engines shattered whatever silence had blanketed the valley that evening and echoed against the canyon walls in stereo; the archer fought back the instinct to flinch at the harsh reverberation it caused and steadily took aim with his bow.

 

“Get ready. We’ve got company. You good to go, partner?”

 

Hanzo grunted. “I am fine, McCree. Focus on your part of this plan.”

 

“Jus’ checkin’.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw McCree gesture vaguely in the direction of the opposite cliffside. “Still feelin’ good ‘bout that shot then?”

 

“Hm. Hardly a challenge.” It was true that the shot would be an easy one to make. While not especially large, a stationary target that was a little over one hundred yards away was still enough for him to consider it target practice. The bright yellow paint of the barrels he and McCree had maneuvered were barely visible among the rocky crevices, yet his eyes had been trained for moments like these in order to pick out subtle details that keyed him into his enemies. No, the shot was not the hard part of this plan, but the inability to predict what would happen after he released the arrow was disconcerting to say the least.

 

Bringing up the bow, Hanzo tightened his hand around the grip. "There is no need to waste your ammunition, if that is what you’re implying.” 

 

Another unfortunate circumstance of their run-in with the local bandits; while they had been able to retrieve the Vault Hunter’s handgun back at the camp, a majority of the gun’s ammo had been lost or stolen by the bandits themselves, which currently left the gunslinger with just under a full clip left in his revolver. Five bullets, and one arm that worked, the mechanical one stowed away until they found a way to fix it, or a replacement.

 

“Tch. Ain’t wastin’ if it gets the job done.” He heard McCree sit up as the bandits approached the mouth of the canyon. “Wanna do a countdown?”

 

“What would even be the point in doing so?”

 

“It’ll be awesome. That’s the point.”

 

Hanzo groaned. “You can’t be serious-”

 

A click of a revolver. He could hear the grin in the man’s voice. “In five-”

 

“You’re serious.” He punctuated with an eyeroll and focused on the sliver of yellow that peeked out from behind the boulders. In that moment, though, he swore he saw McCree smirk at him. He didn’t know why he bothered anymore.

 

“Four-”

 

The bandits were a thousand yards away but rapidly approaching. Nine hundred, five hundred-

 

“Three-”

 

Looking back, Hanzo later realized he had learned a new rule that day.

 

“Two-”

 

_ Rule Three: everyone is incorrigible on Pandora, even the Vault Hunters.  _

 

“One!”

 

_ Especially the Vault Hunters.  _

 

Hanzo released the arrow. He didn’t stop to watch its path, and scrambled down the rocks after McCree at the bottom of the canyon. The two had scarcely dropped to their knees behind a sizable boulder and covered their heads when the blast happened.

 

There had been a faint metallic plink, then a thunderous explosion mere seconds after that had shook the entire canyon and the ground beneath them. Fragments of dark gray rock and crag were jettisoned off the wall, the slabs of earth crashing and tumbling down the sides like a slow-rolling tidal wave. A barrage of resounding booms and cracks came after, with every stone that impacted the surface. The tall mountainside crumbled; dust shot up all around, thick enough to choke on and forcing Hanzo to bring an arm up to shield his face from the onslaught of smoke and soot. 

 

Screeching tires mixed with clattering rock. A deafening crash of metal against rock. Shouts of anger, dismay, and pain. Then, an eerie, eerie silence- one that made the archer’s skin crawl. He was beginning to understand why McCree hated silence so much; silence on Pandora was something to be concerned about. 

 

Unlatching his hands from the back of his head, Hanzo looked briefly to the side at the Vault Hunter as if to say ‘What now, genius?’. McCree was gripping his hat tightly, and his face had a look that was a mix of fear and adrenaline. He didn’t need a mirror to know he was scarcely faring any better himself. He got no immediate answer from McCree, and turned cautiously to crane his neck over the boulder.

 

Through the settling dusty air, he could see the road was split by a sizable barrier of rock and stone, the path to the other side all but blocked save for a gap just below where the canyon began to form a tunnel. The jet black marks on the ground were already coated in a thick layer of dirt and grime, and all lead up to the massive metal deathtrap that Hanzo could only assume was the technical. The front of it appeared to be wedged tightly into the crevice between the newly-formed rock wall and the canyon itself, though the exact extent of the damage was hard to tell from their current position. At the top the vehicle, in a mounted turret gun, there was a figure slumped over at the waist. They were donned in rough leathers and a red-and-white facemask, their head in particular bent back at an uncomfortable angle; Hanzo guessed it had been the work of either whiplash or falling debris.

 

His eyes darted over quickly as movement caught his attention in the flatbed. A single gloved hand clambered up and weakly gripped the railing along the side for support. Slowly but surely, he saw the bandit pull themselves to their feet with heavy, shaking limbs, and then another rise to their feet beside them. 

 

“Son of a… Wha--?!” 

 

A shot rang out from Hanzo’s right just as one of the bandit’s feet hit the ground. A splash of crimson. Their head reeled back, they staggered, and fell. A second shot pierced through the other bandit’s head a second later and they too crumbled to the ground in a heap.

 

The man on his right didn’t move a muscle, the gun in his hand still smoking. Hanzo held his breath, fighting back the urge to cough up the dust-coated air. He shifted on his heels to stand and grab an arrow from his quiver, but noticed McCree glance his way with an unusually stern expression, shake his head, and press a finger to his lips.  _ Wait. Don’t make a sound.  _

 

The archer nodded back at the Vault Hunter, though his knuckles hovered over the fletchings. McCree turned to press himself thin against the boulder, and tipped his hat up with his gun.

 

“Alright, skaglick, listen up.” His voice was a bellowing roar, resonating in every direction against the close walls and cutting through the stillness like a blade. “We, that’d be my boys an’ I, all got this here canyon on lockdown, as I’m sure you can tell by the state of your compadres’ heads. Now, I ain’t the violent-” Hanzo flinched as McCree fired off a bullet in the direction of the technical, which rebounded against the wall of rock, the stray projectile flying off somewhere in the distance. “I wouldn’t go makin’ any sudden movements if I were you, fella. You see, your buddies there got a lil’ too squirrelly- ”

 

From the technical came a pathetically wobbly voice. “G-go to hell, you ja-” Another round, this one impacting closer to the driver’s seat that made the voice yelp fearfully. 

 

“You outta know it ain’t polite to interrupt someone when he’s speakin’.” 

 

Hanzo watched the Vault Hunter fiercely all the while. That had been the fourth shot. It didn’t make any sense. Four shots fired, one shot left, and two of those four shots hadn’t even hit anything. It was currently two-against-one, not counting the one slumped over in the turret chair- significantly better odds than they had endured thus far. Their skills combined would be more than enough to take down a lone bandit. Just what  _ was _ this strange man’s plan?

 

His face must have said it all, as McCree had the audacity to slyly wink at Hanzo before he continued. “As I was sayin’, I ain’t the violent sort, so I’ll tell you what: I’ll cut’cha a deal. You hop on outta that fancy technical, put those hands where we all can see ‘em an’ we’ll let’cha go.”

 

“Wait, are… are you serious?”

 

McCree brought a hand to his chest, despite the other not being able to see him. “Cross my heart, amigo. Like I said, we all jus’ want the technical, not the fella inside. Just know this is your one an’ only chance to walk away from this lil’ meetin’; it don’t make no difference to me what you choose so long as you choose somethin’ soon, buddy.” 

 

After a particularly long stretch of silence, Hanzo found himself breathing a quick sigh of relief when the bandit finally emerged from the technical with their arms above their head. McCree gave a short laugh.

 

“Knew you’d see things my way. Just sit tight for a moment, why don’cha?” 

 

Hanzo felt a nudge from his right, and saw McCree had holstered his gun and pulled his serape over his left side. The gunslinger’s eyes danced nervously despite the confidence in which he had spoken earlier, and his focus kept shifting over his tensed shoulders. His voice dropped to a low whisper that Hanzo had to strain in order to hear. “Stay here. Don’t move ‘til I say so.”

 

“You are not going to shoot them?” Furrowing his brow, he grabbed at the serape just as McCree stood up, forcing him back down momentarily. “That bandit will kill you any chance they get. You should strike now, at a distance.”

 

The man gritted his teeth and scowled at the dirt. “A man’s gotta have rules, Hanzo. When I say I won’t shoot, I mean it.” He tried shrugging out of Hanzo’s hand, but the archer’s iron grip on the crimson serape was one garnered from years of training; he would not be escaping that easily.  McCree gave a long sigh at that, and turned to looked back at Hanzo pensively. “Look, just… trust me for a lil’ longer here, ‘kay?”

 

With one final sharp pull, the Vault Hunter twisted himself out of Hanzo’s grip, and disappeared around the other side of the boulder before his partner could object any further. Hanzo sat up to peer over the large rock, and watched anxiously as McCree crossed over to the other side of the canyon, those obnoxious spurs rattling against the pavement with every step. It was a short walk to the technical itself, but to a man who was scanning the scene for any possible way this could end poorly, it felt as though a short lifetime had passed before the gunslinger reached the bandit, and even then the uneasiness only magnified for the archer.

 

McCree was silent as he walked right on past the bandit and began to survey the damage of the technical. Hanzo could sense the other’s confusion from here, and it was only after several minutes of silent inspection that someone finally spoke. “S-so…what, I’m really free to go then? You really think I’m going to believe that load of skagshit?” 

 

The archer’s fingers up by his quiver twitched when the bandit lowered their arms. He was fighting every urge in his body not to spring into action and sink an arrow into the masked individual’s head, but McCree’s instructions had been clear, and he at least acted as if he had a plan in mind. 

 

“You just- you think you’re too good to talk to me now, that it, cowboy?!” Hanzo watched McCree turn his head to the side to peer over his shoulder, though not at the bandit behind him, but at the archer peaking out from behind the rock. In that moment, a fox-like grin curled on the gunslinger’s lips.

 

A gloved hand came down firmly on McCree’s left shoulder. The bandit spun him to face them, their other arm coming in for a heavy blow to the head. McCree lunged in close, far too fast for the bandit, hooked his one arm underneath the arm on his shoulder and delivered a swift uppercut to their jaw with a solid crack. His attacker’s grip loosened after that, the gunslinger taking the chance to whip around, grab the base of the bandit’s head, and slam it into the flatbed railing once before letting them slump to the ground.

 

Hanzo’s hand dropped from the fletchings and stared at the man across the way. This was hardly the same man he had literally dragged around the camp not more than a week ago, whose eyes were hazy and his speech slurred, and yet all the same, Hanzo watched as McCree meet his gaze with a familiar half-cocked grin and a tip of his hat. 

 

Hanzo jogged over to meet back with the Vault Hunter, the speckled blood against the road and technical filling the air around them with a rusty smell, and he found himself burying his nose slightly into the collar of his jacket when he drew near the bodies. He spared a quick glance in particular down at the bandit lying at McCree’s feet, the trickle of red pooling from underneath the cloth mask mimicking the scarlet splash against the side of the technical. 

 

Frowning, he looked back and forth between the bandit on the ground, and the stain on the technical. Something did not add up. The only two of the bandits that had been shot were killed on the right side of the vehicle, opposite to the driver seat. The bloodstains didn’t match; had there been another bandit killed in the crash? He counted the bodies just to be sure.

 

One, two, three, four. He counted again. Four bandits. Two from the back seat, one from the driver, the gunner. Who was he missing?

 

“Hey, archer, you jus’ gonna stand there all day or what? C’mon, I need a hand with this.” McCree’s voice called down to him from the flatbed of the technical, snickering mirthfully at his own joke. “Oh, don’t gimme that face. C’mon, that was funny.”

 

Shaking himself out of his daze, Hanzo climbed up onto the flatbed next to McCree. “I honestly do not know how to respond to that.”

 

“I get that a lot.” McCree latched onto one arm of the bandit and nodded his head at Hanzo. “Grab the other side; we’re gonna yank this one outta here so y’all got a place to sit on the drive.”

 

He was sure McCree had said something else, but he was too busy staring at the trail of blood that dripped down from the gunner’s chair. As they tilted the body to the side and hurled it out of the turret chair, Hanzo could see a clear bullet hole in the bandit’s head similar to the ones on the right of the technical. Three had been shot out of the four bullets fired. His eyes widened at the realization.

 

“You hadn’t missed.”

 

McCree looked up. “Come again?”

 

He started over. “Back when you shot at the driver. You shot at them twice, but only one of them was actually meant to scare the driver. The other was to eliminate the one manning the turret.” He paused. “Why? I thought they were unconscious before the fight.”

 

“They were, but thought I saw ‘em comin’ to in the middle of everythin’, an’ didn’t wanna take any chances. So I figured I’d kill two birds with one stone, since most bandits don’t seem to understand what a warning shot is the first time around.” Wiping some of the grime from his hand on his chaps, McCree jumped over the side of the flatbed and climbed into the front seat. “That ‘bout answer your question there, sunshine?”

 

Hanzo chuckled quietly to himself as he lowered himself into the turret chair. Underestimating this cowboy would be his downfall yet. “Perhaps. Though, I have one last question for you.”

 

From his position, he could barely see the top of the gunslinger’s hat as he twisted to look over his shoulder up at the archer. “Go on.”

 

“Did the bandits purposefully design these vehicles with only one front seat?”

 

That earned a proper laugh from the man in front. “I don’t know ‘bout it being bandit design so much as the work of one quirky lil’ mechanic over in Gibraltar. But tell you what, partner: how ‘bout instead of explainin’ that one to you, I do you one better an’ just take you there to ask her yourself.” 

 

Hanzo gripped the guardrail surrounding the turret chair as the engine roared to life in an instant, the growl rebounding like bullet shells off the valley walls. Looking behind him, he saw the darkened late night sky beginning to shift to the softer palette of the rising sun, the air still crisp in his lungs. Once again, he found himself alive and well on the planet of Pandora by no small miracle.

 

With that thought in mind, he felt a strange tension shed itself from his shoulders as he strapped himself into the turret chair. “It’s a deal then, gunslinger.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> get a load of them boys (them boys)
> 
> as usual, you can find me over [here](http://aerihead.tumblr.com/) and the amazing cicada over [here](http://thetiniestcicada.tumblr.com/) on tumblr!!


	7. quietly, but with a lot of feeling "fuck"

 

There was a love-hate relationship between Jesse McCree and the sandy wastes known as the Dust, and it was a strong one at that.

 

He loved plenty about it, certainly. He loved the warm sunlight, how it clung to his clothes and kissed his freckled skin. He loved how the wind seemed to give off this low, howling whistle that roamed across the otherwise quiet arid valley, weaving in and out of stone arches carved out over thousands of years. He even loved the way the desert landscape stretched far off into horizon and tapered off at the curve of the planet.

 

Now, don’t get him wrong. He wasn’t normally the type to wax poetic ‘bout some damn rocks and dirt. He wasn’t, and yet he could still recall times where he spent entire afternoons out on the ridge, just staring into the distance at the grand scale of it all. Once in a blue moon, the rays of sun would hit that ridge at just the right angle, and the low valley would become something magical to behold. The sky would fade from cornflower to carmine and the flax-colored sands would begin to glow with a soft sepia brown. For a few short moments, he was small, everything was beautiful on Pandora.

 

“Bump!”

 

McCree felt the vehicle jolt as two spiderants launched themselves, and then swiftly disappeared beneath the mechanical beast. There was two hardy crunches, and then the tell-tale crackling whines of the overgrown pests, signalling their deaths. The Vault Hunter sighed in aggravation for what felt like the millionth time in the past forty-five minutes.

 

Oh, there was plenty to love about the Dust, but _goddamn_ did he hate the locals.

 

Between the spiderants, the occasional swarm of rakks, and the bandits with too much time and machinery on their hands, he wasn’t sure which he hated more. Those idiots in their buzzards were a hassle to evade on their own, but more than once already the traveling duo had almost gotten swarmed by the damn rolling insects, crawling out the pocketed walls of their wretched nests. Damn things were everywhere you looked, and with the turret busted from the rockslide a few days back, they had to rely on their quick wits and even quicker reflexes to get rid of the fuckers.

 

Really, the gunslinger had only himself to blame for this. What brilliant jackass decided to blow up the side of a canyon cliff, sealing off the most direct route from the Highlands to Three Horns just to stop a shitty bandit technical?

 

Why, that would be the one that was driving said shitty technical through the Dust currently, that’s who.

 

He resisted the urge to smack his forehead against the wheel for that stupid mistake. Ten days was a long time to be traveling by his standards, especially alongside another person. Hell, this was the longest he had worked with someone in months now, possibly years. His past jobs were much simpler than this whole arrangement he had going on: shoot this person and come get your money after. Deliver this package, get your money after. Take this and hide it, get your money after. Ecetera, ecetera. Rinse and repeat as necessary.

 

Traveling alongside someone though, it was…well, it was many things to the cowboy. More than anything though, it was downright exhausting, in a strange and unfamiliar way - ‘unfamiliar’ in the way riding a bike would feel unfamiliar to someone who hadn’t ridden one in a long time. He wasn’t just risking his neck out here after all, and while he was grateful Hanzo had enough combat know-how to hold his own in a fight, the skilled archer was still a newcomer by all means, and no one was about to roll out the welcome mat any time soon for the fella.

 

_A newcomer who still hasn’t said a word about where he’s from,_ he mused. Or, running from, if the man’s comment back at the camp was anything to go by. He’d met his fair share of strange and wily folks in his lifetime, but Hanzo…

 

That Hanzo was one mystery after the other, and the gunslinger knew all those unanswered questions were either gonna pay off, or bite him hard in the ass down the line.

 

As plumes of sand streaked across the hood of the technical, McCree briefly let go of the wheel to bang on the caging around him- a signal to his companion keeping watch in the turret chair. “Han-zo! Makin’ a pit stop!” He shouted upwards, his neck craning just barely over his shoulder. “There’s an outcroppin’ comin’ up on the left, we’ll have cover from folks there!”

 

Hanzo’s voice was edged with unease as he called back to the driver. “Is there a problem?”

 

“No, nothin’ like that!” The Vault Hunter shook his head. “Leg’s jus’ crampin’ up somethin’ fierce. Need to take a break real quick, stretch it out.”

 

“How long will that take?”

 

“How long?” He looked up in thought and then shrugged, despite knowing the man could not see the gesture. “Reckon ‘bout ten, twenty minutes tops! That sound good to you?”

 

There was a brief pause before he heard him speak again. “Very well, but make it quick! We need to keep moving!”

 

“Make it quick, huh?” He glanced briefly back at the wide expanse of road they still had to cross, then down at the gear shift. Finally, he looked back at Hanzo as a mischievous smile crossed his face.

 

Oh, he shouldn’t. He _really_ shouldn’t.

 

“You got it, boss!”

 

“...Wait, no-!”

 

McCree didn’t hear the rest of archer’s response after that; in a flash, the gunslinger cranked back the level on his right and stepped hard on the gas. A newfound energy pulsed through the technical with a start. The engine bellowed. Dust and grit flew up in thick clouds from the tires ripping through the dunes. His gut sank into his back, and he heard Hanzo cry out in surprise at the sudden acceleration.

 

“ _McCree!_ ”

 

McCree threw back his head in laughter, and howled from the adrenaline running hot in his veins.

 

\---  

 

Hanzo looked like a puffed-up cat.

 

There was no other way to put it. When the vehicle finally came to a stop behind the jutting stone crevasse, McCree climbed out of the front seat and turned just in time to see the proud archer carefully crawl down the side. His neat hair was frazzled, threatening to spill down his shoulders, and his eyes were as wide as saucers.

 

He choked as he felt another wave of laughter wash over him.

 

“You, uh… you got a-”

 

“Not. A. Word.”

 

“C’mon, don’t be like th-!”

 

Those saucer-wide eyes narrowed dangerously at him. “McCree, I will make you shut up if you do not cease. I assure you that it is not an empty threat.”

 

“...Rowr.”

 

Hanzo lunged forward, and then they were off. McCree broke out into a sprint, rocks and sand spraying up with every footfall. He cackled wildly as he ran. He didn’t even know which direction he was running in, didn’t even know where the archer was at this point; he just ran, and ran, and-

 

The wind left his chest, his hat left his head, and then he was on the ground. He coughed once, but grabbed onto whatever tackled him and flung them so they were now on the ground. He recoiled when flecks of sand flew up into his eyes, clouding his vision as he felt himself roll once more and a trained pressure fall upon him.

 

When he opened his eyes, Hanzo was overtop him, one arm hooked around his neck and the other pinning down his right with the help of one of his legs. His teeth were bared in a snarl, and McCree could swear he saw a dance of merriment behind that hardened stare, a flash or a sparkle of something a bit more playful and lighthearted.

 

It faded as quickly as it had appeared, and McCree was brought back to reality when the man above him growled and pressed down on the arm in his grasp.

 

“Ow- Fuck! Okay, okay! Uncle, uncle!” McCree cried out, voice muffled from the archer’s coat. He’d give Hanzo credit where it was due: the guy was built like a brick shithouse. Damn near felt like he was talking through a wall with his face buried so close against the other’s chest. “Fuckin’ Christ, Hanzo, I was just tryin’ to have a little fun!”

 

“Enough! I’ve had it with your games, cowboy. One minute you talk of hiding from the bandits in the skies, and the next you are announcing our location to everyone in the valley. We could have been caught by those ruffians again, and we would have been back at the beginning!”

 

“Yeah, but we didn’t get caught, now did we? ‘Sides, ain’t like they could’a nabbed us with how fast we were goin’ anyhow!” The Vault Hunter huffed noisily against the fabric. “Sheesh. You always walk ‘round with that rod up your ass, or is that a new feature?”

 

“I said ‘enough’.” Hanzo sneered viciously down at him. “You need to take this more seriously.”

 

“Seriously? You wanna talk ‘bout me bein’ serious, and here you are whinin’ bout losin’ your footin’ on a fuckin’ bandit tech!” He tried to wrestle out of the man’s grip, but to no avail. “Jus’ what exactly is your problem here, partner? You act like I personally shoved you off the truck!”

 

“You nearly did, or have you forgotten already?” Hanzo glowered down at him, boring holes into his head. “Your irresponsibility is going to get us killed.”

 

“Well, my irresponsibility seems to be doin’ pretty damn good for us so far, don’cha think? We’re nearly halfway to Gibraltar with a free technical, an’ the worst we’ve seen is sand an’ spiderants!”

 

“And in the process you wasted valuable ammunition, you blasted the side of a mountain to get said technical, sealed off the fastest route-”

 

“Hey, you had a hand in that!”

 

“-And look where it got us!”

 

“Oh, of all the-” McCree stared angrily back up, attempting to sit up as he did so. No dice. He gritted his teeth in anger. “First of all, it ain’t my fault you don’t know how to grip a handrail-ack!” As if on cue, he felt the man’s arm around his neck tighten ever so slightly, as if to say ‘I’ll show _you_ a grip’. He smacked the arm with the remainder of his prosthetic like a flailing child. “Would you cut that out?!”

 

“Listen, cowboy.” The archer snapped. “I am paying you to _safely_ bring me to the town of Gibraltar. If I cannot count on you to do as much, then I will find someone else more competent.”

 

“‘Safely’? You gotta be kiddin’ me; that all this is about?” He rolled his eyes as dramatically as one could in a headlock as his words turned to venomous spit. “You wanna be fuckin’ safe? Then leave! Go back home to wherever the fuck you came from! Be all kinds of safe an’ sound from the mean ol’ things tryin’ to kill you here on Pandora, an’ _get the hell off of me_!”

 

With that, McCree felt the man’s grip slacken, and he finally broke free with a grunt. As he stood to his feet, he expected to see Hanzo up and ready to fight. He expected to see him glaring heatedly at him, fists up and already going in for a powerful blow.

 

Instead, he saw a man kneeling in the sand, looking as if he had sunken in on himself with his hands balled into tight fists against his thighs. His eyes did not burn hot, but instead smoldered like long-dead coals. They were the eyes of someone far older than the man they belonged to.

 

This was not the look of a fighting man.

 

McCree sighed as the snake of anger that had coiled in his gut dissipated at the sight, and he reached down to scoop his hat from the ground.

 

That was when he saw it. A flash, a shadow slinking against the wall by their technical. A skittering, something fast. Or, had it been a trick of the light? Like that glimmer from before in Hanzo’s eyes, or- No. No, definitely something. Shadows don’t skitter.

 

Shadows _shouldn’t_ skitter.

 

There was a crackling hiss, and a figure leapt out from the shadows in a blur of motion.

 

“Hanzo!” The Vault Hunter’s gun was already in hand as the large insect jumped out into the open. It gave a warbling wail, and Hanzo scrambled to his feet at the sound, but a moment too slow.

 

The ant’s right forearm lashed out, raking its claw against the back of Hanzo’s leg, a metallic scraping noise ringing out loud enough to make McCree to wince. The bug moved to attack again, but the archer swiftly spun around and delivered a forceful kick to its bulbous head. It flew backwards far faster than McCree thought it would, and slumped hard against the wall opposite of them. Struggling to its feet, dazed and disoriented, its cracked carapace swayed as it drunkenly stumbled about.

 

He didn’t waste another second; McCree took aim, and fired. His last bullet ripped through the air and slammed into the creature with a resounding clap; the spiderant’s head scattered against stone and its lifeless body sagged to the ground.

 

His fingers itched against the trigger for a second, waiting for more to emerge. When he felt that all had settled into the dust, only then did McCree finally rest easy and holster his gun. He then reached down once more, successfully plucked his hat from the ground and patted the excess dirt from the brim before fixing it atop his head.

 

“Well, dunno ‘bout you, partner, but I reckon I’ve done enough stretchin’.” He turned to face his companion, only to see him back on the ground, more than likely having fallen after the kick. McCree sighed and extended a hand down. “C’mon, let’s get goin’.”

 

The archer recoiled from him, and remained silent. He tried again. “Hey, you in there? I said ‘c’mon’. Let’s get a move on, boss. We’ve got ground to cover.”

 

Hanzo swatted away the hand as he stood to his feet, and began to wordlessly make his way back towards the technical.

 

Scratching the base of his neck, McCree followed after, far enough to give the man some space yet close enough to still speak if they wanted. Yet even from a distance, there was a fierce intensity that radiated off of him as if to say ‘we are done talking’.

 

There was a glint that caught his eye as Hanzo walked ahead of him. A familiar sort of silvery glint, one that he knew as well as the back of his left hand.

 

Prosthetics.

 

Fancy ones at that, judging by their appearance and the fact that it took him until just now to realize it. It didn’t take much to be fancy out in these parts, but even he could tell they were something special. Custom-made, meant to be more than just something to walk on. Made him think of what kind of place a guy had to come from to get fancy limbs like that.

 

Hell, made him wonder what kind of money he’d have to have to afford them in the first place. Grossly rich folks aside, having the technology and resources to make even simple prosthetics look like a pair of tricked-out boots didn’t sound all that bad to the gunslinger.

 

But if ‘there’ was so great, why was he here now, on the shittiest planet the universe had to offer?

 

McCree suddenly felt a cold wind wash over him at one dangerous thought. His hastiness since they had first met, the way he was always moving about as if he couldn’t risk sitting, his determination to reach a place where there was plenty of crowds to hide in if he needed to; it all made sense now.

 

“...You’re runnin’ from somethin’.”

 

He watched Hanzo’s shoulders tense up at the statement, and the man came to a halt, his back still to the gunslinger. That was all the answer he needed.

 

“Shit, Han. I... Back then, I didn’t mean-” _No_ , McCree stopped himself. That was a lie; he _had_ meant it. He had, and he couldn’t blame that on the heat of the moment no matter how much he wanted to. He had wanted to strike a nerve, make him angry, get some sort of reaction from the archer, and for what? He didn’t even know.

 

God, when had he become such a fucking dick?

 

Running his hand across his chin, McCree sighed and strode up beside Hanzo. He reached forward to lay a reassuring hand on the man’s shoulder, but hesitated at the last second and dropped it back down by his side. “Hanzo, listen, what I said back there… I can’t take it back, but I wanted to apologize. I was-”

 

“You were right.”

 

McCree watched Hanzo reach up and pull at the sand-coated ribbon hanging loosely by the side of his head. His hands were deft as they worked to untangle the strands of dark hair from the sagging knot. “What?”

 

“You were right: I was a fool to complain of safety earlier.  I knew what I was getting into when I made the decision to come here. Your methods are… reckless, but effective given our surroundings. As you have said, this planet is horribly cruel and dangerous.”

 

As the sash wound tightly around the base of the bun, Hanzo turned and met McCree’s gaze with a weary look of his own.

 

“But I would be an even greater fool to remain on the planet I once called my home.”

 

The desert wind had grown sweltering as the sun rose high in the sky, yet McCree knew the heat on his face was from the red hot shame that washed over him. He fought the urge to tip his hat down in some vain attempt to hide his face, and nodded quietly at the archer.

 

Hanzo returned the nod, and began making his way back to the technical once more. The tension in his back was gone, but in its place was a steely coldness that left McCree on edge.

 

Yeah, he deserved that one.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey kids! did you know its physically impossible to survive college on a really bad sleep schedule? its true!!
> 
> as usual, you can find the amazing cicada over [here](http://thetiniestcicada.tumblr.com/) and me over [here](http://aerihead.tumblr.com/) on tumblr!!


	8. Looks Clear

That evening, Hanzo broke the silence with a question, one that McCree hadn’t anticipated.

 

“What exactly is a Vault, gunslinger?”

 

McCree made a noise of confusion as he paused mid-bite and looked up from his skewer of charred skag. He swallowed and tried again. “Hm?”

 

The archer stared intently into the heart of the small campfire they had made, light flickering against his face. Embers popped and crackled in the air between them, the heat making waves in the space above the fire. Hanzo made no move to look up at his companion as he spoke.

 

“I’ve heard tales of Vaults, and of Vault Hunters seeking their fortune and fame. Legends that tell of their struggles, how they have traveled far and searched endlessly, fought bloodily, and died all in the name of Vaults. Yet not one ever spoke of what lies within, or if there even was an ‘in’. ” The man’s lips pursed into a thin line, the sharpness of his scowl highlighted by the fire. “To me, they are as mysterious as those who hunt them.”

 

A low chuckle rumbled in McCree’s chest at that. Mysterious, he said.

 

_Case of the pot calling the kettle black._

 

“Well, reckon you ain’t the only one in that regard, partner. Lotta folks don’t know much ‘bout ‘em.” When Hanzo gave him a quizzical look, McCree laughed again, and set down his skewer in his lap. “Well, to start, Vaults are… well, they’re exactly that: vaults, safes, lockboxes. They hold stuff, an’ they’re locked with a key. Ain’t much else to it.”

 

“What is inside?”

 

He shrugged. “I’unno.”

 

Hanzo’s brow furrowed at that. “What do you mean ‘you don’t know’?”

 

“I mean exactly that: I don’t know. No one does. Wouldn’t have a need for Vault Hunters if that were the case.”

 

“I am afraid I don’t follow.”

 

Picking up his charred skag, he ripped off a piece and chewed on it thoughtfully before continuing. “Think ‘bout it like this: you got yourself somethin’ special, an’ you wanna keep folks from takin’ it or usin’ it or whatever. Could be money, could be weapons, anythin’ really. One man’s trash, an’ all that. Point is, y’all wanna keep it safe, an’ so you put it in a box. But most people won’t just stop at a box, right? What then?”

 

The archer rested his hands against his knees. “You lock the box with a key.”

 

“Bingo.” He finished the last of his skewer and threw the stick into the flames. The thin stick caught fast, shrinking against the larger planks of kindling. “An’ a special key at that. They ain’t exactly easy to come by. Half the job of a Vault Hunter is findin’ the damn things. If you can’t find ‘em, you see if there ain’t another way in.”

 

Hanzo tensed. “So you are a thief then. A bandit.”

 

McCree scowled fiercely. “No, I ain’t a bandit. Vault Hunters ain’t nothin’ like bandits.”

 

“Your job involves stealing valuables from others. By all definitions, that makes you a bandit.”

 

“Eh, sorta.” The gunslinger made a face and wavered his hand back and forth. “See, it ain’t really stealin’ seein’ as the owners ain’t around anymore.”

 

“Then you’re a grave-robber.”

 

“An’ you’re bein’ a hardass.”

 

Hanzo rolled his eyes. “Then what do you mean by ‘the owners aren’t around’? Who are the owners of these Vaults?”

 

“The owners were the, uh…” He racked his brain for the name he had heard ages ago, back when he actually cared to learn a thing or two. “The... Eridians? Think that’s their name. They were these… ancient alien folk who used to live on Pandora long ‘fore anyone ever got here. They’re the ones who made the Vaults, I think.”

 

“Do you know what became of them?”

 

“No idea. Lots of people seem to be on board of the theory that it was a war that wiped ‘em out, or somethin’ grandiose like that.”

 

“Hm. A widely-accepted theory does not mean it is correct.” Hanzo scoffed.

 

“Ain’t that the truth.” He chuckled. A sharpshooter who was also a history buff; Hanzo was shaping out to be one of the most curious guys he’d ever met. “Don’t matter much anyhow, seein’ as none of ‘em are around to even tell us what’s what.”

 

“A shame, indeed.” His companion wistfully turned his attention outwards towards the ridge, where the faint stars bled into the horizon and a dash of color from the sun still stained the sky. “I believe I have read of the Eridians in the past in my travels, but the accounts were...”

 

“Vague as shit?” McCree offered.

 

“-lacking.”

 

He nodded. “Sounds ‘bout right. I’ve known folks who’ve studied ‘em all their lives an’ still don’t know a damn thing ‘bout how they lived or nothin’.” He leaned down and prodded the fire with a stray twig by his foot. “You wanna see real vague-ass shit though, try askin’ ‘bout Sirens. Hoo-wee.”

 

He had been staring at the fire, so he hadn’t seen it: the way Hanzo’s shoulders locked up, how his nostrils flared, and how his eyes widened immensely at the word as he tugged nervously on his jacket sleeve. When he looked back up at the archer, though, he saw none of that in the recomposed man sitting up straight before him.

 

“Don’t know much ‘bout ‘em myself, but anythin’ you hear ‘bout ‘em sounds like the stuff of legends. I mean, six women with glowin’ tattoos and magic powers, an’ there can only ever be six at a time in the entire goddamn universe? If that don’t sound like some kinda fairy-tale hocus-pocus shit, I don’t know what does.”

 

Hanzo cleared his throat quietly. “Have you… ever met one? A Siren, that is.”

 

“No, can’t say I have.” McCree shook his head. “Think I’d know an angel if I saw one, y’know?”

 

Across the way, Hanzo snorted and laughed into his hand, causing McCree’s face to flush hot with embarrassment.

 

“What- Aw, c’mon, quit laughin’! You gotta admit that’s what they sound like! Like some sorta… benevolent guardian angel watchin’ over us, all mythical and shit?”

 

This only caused Hanzo to sputter further, one hand clutching his stomach as he brought another to his eyes. The gunslinger couldn’t help but join in on the rambunctious chuckle fest, given that this was the most relaxed and happy he had ever seen the archer. He didn’t know what was so funny about the comment in the first place, but if it got him to laugh that much and that hard, McCree was willing to join in on the fun.

 

They laughed until they were too sore to continue, and then laughed wheezily at how hard they had laughed. When their cheeks hurt too much from that, they gradually turned back to a pattern of questions and answers, and talked late into the night about Pandora.

 

Hanzo listened intently as McCree told him of rakks (“screamin’ assholes”, as he called them), bullymongs, and anything else that would try to kill them. He could almost see him taking notes when he talked of the best way to deal with bandits, and how to escape them. Taught him that anyone who fought bandits was doing it for fun and for loot, not because it was easy.

 

He saw the man frown somewhat at that. “I thought you had said bandits were stupid.”

 

“Oh, they’re dumber than a sack of bricks, but that don’t mean they ain’t a threat.” The Vault Hunter kicked some sand into the fire. He’d have to stand watch soon, and too bright a fire would give him away. He could feel Hanzo’s eyes on him as he turned to look at the man. “When bandits want somethin’, they’ll take it. Don’t matter what it is; if it ain’t theirs, they want it an’ they ain’t gonna take your ‘no’ for an answer. They always get nasty when you say ‘no’.”

 

Hanzo nodded sagely, his face unreadable as he met McCree’s gaze. “Is... that how...?” He trailed off, though his terse silence and quick gesture to his left finished the rest of that thought.

 

Solemnly, McCree shook his head and closed his eyes, the dark world suddenly too bright in that moment. The warmth from the fire washed over him like waves on a beach, and he felt a humming headache at the memory.

 

_Fire, like the one before him, but even hotter. It burned all around. Everything was too hot, too bright, too loud. Coarse sand grated against his arms and face as he tumbled. Someone called out to him, telling him to get up, get up, c’mon, Jesse-_

 

He bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself from diving too deep. It was time to come back to the present, cowboy.

 

The archer averted his gaze to his feet. “Forgive me, I shouldn’t have-”

 

“No, no, i-it’s fine. No, I, uh… I got this, uh,” He made a vague motion with the remainder of his left arm, and let out a shuddering breath through his nose. A ghost of pins and needles taunted him by pricking sharply fingers that weren’t there anymore. “This was…a long time ago. Me bein’ a dumb-ass an’... not movin’ fast enough when I should’ve.”

 

“...I see.”

 

They lapsed into a silence that almost seemed as though it wanted to crawl between the circuits and latches of his left arm. It was the same silence that pulled at the serape bunched around his neck, making him tug sharply to make room to breathe. Fire licked at the musty night air, and McCree was all but lost in the flames when he heard Hanzo speak again.

 

“Did you… build it yourself?”

 

“Hm? Oh, uh… no, wasn’t me.” Shrugging off the creeping lethargy in his bones, he craned his neck to the side to stare at the busted empty socket. “Well...not the original, at least. Been makin’ lil’ tweaks here an’ there, but the bulk of it was by a couple of knuckleheads I met years ago.”

 

“Friends of yours?”

 

“Guess you could call ‘em that, sure.” The Vault Hunter laughed dryly. “They saved my ass, gave me a new arm, an’ I help them with a couple of odd jobs every now an’ again as payment for all that.  Probably the closest thing to friends I’ve got out here in the Dust.”

 

“The Dust?” Hanzo sat forward, his voice taking on a more business-like tone. “They live nearby?”

 

“Well, relatively speakin’. It ain’t exactly on the way, if that’s what-”

“Could they fix your arm?”

 

Caught off-guard by the sudden shift in gears, McCree scratched the back of his neck and hissed through his teeth with a long, drawn out, “Well-”

 

Hardened eyes met his. “You are hesitant.”

 

McCree snorted. “Only ‘cause I know what we’re gonna be dealin’ with if we go see ‘em.”

 

“ _When_ we go see them.” Hanzo corrected firmly. “We still have a day’s worth of travel to Gibraltar; we need your arm fixed. As I have said, I am capable of paying for any expenses- ”

 

“An’ I’m tryin’ to tell you that you don’t know these two like I do. If you did, you’d understand where I’m comin’ from here.” McCree pulled off his hat and ran a hand through his hair. “They ain’t exactly the easiest lot to work with, an’ I’ve known them for years. I show up randomly with a new fella by my side, an’ they’ll be madder than a wet hen an’ twice as jumpy.”

 

Hanzo folded his arms across his chest. “Well, they can hardly be worse than bandits.”

 

McCree let out a small squeak and nervously looked away. He looked up, down, side to side, anywhere that wasn’t directly at the archer ahead of him. A moment or so passed before he finally offered up a sheepish grin.

 

Hanzo growled low and rubbed a hand down his face.

 

“They _are_ bandits.”

 

\-----

 

They were bandits, and a few hours after sunrise, they were driving through sand and grit to see them.

 

Hanzo gripped tightly against the handrail of the turret chair, the broken machinery and his bow taking up the rest of the space in his lap while his other arm was feebly blocking out as much of the dust whipping past them as possible. Despite this, he still felt his eyes sting from the wayward kernels of sand that had flown past his defenses.

 

He could almost laugh at how uncanny the timing of the call was. As if summoned by thought alone, McCree had excused himself to take an incoming message on his ECHO device early that morning from none other than the very friends they had been speaking of the night before. Hanzo’s head was still ringing from the booming voice that came in screaming on the other end, followed by the sounds of heavy combat.

 

_“What in the- Quit yellin’ an’ start over from the beginnin’, damn it!”_

 

_McCree held the device an arm’s length away while he rubbed his ears. There was a crackling sound of a high-pitched growl of annoyance on the other end that made Hanzo look up from his spot by the extinguished campfire._

 

_“No time! Need your help, mate, or we’re toast!”_

 

_“What? The hell did you- ” McCree flinched as a barrage of explosions sounded. “God, ‘Rat, can’t you find somewhere else to talk? I can’t hear a damn thing!”_

 

_“Oh, sure, I’ll just tell these fuckin’ bots not to kill me an’ ol’Roadie for five minutes!” A sound of a scuffle before the voice seemed to turn away from the speaker. “Oi, dipsticks! Fuck off!” This was quickly followed by a cry of fear and the sound of more bullets in the background. Then silence._

 

_A long silence._

 

_An uncomfortably long silence._

 

_The Vault Hunter shifted nervously in place and looked back at Hanzo briefly before trying the line again. “Uh…You-”_

 

_The voice came back with a vengeance, and even Hanzo winced at the sudden noise. “It didn’t fuckin’ work!”_

 

_“Ah! Okay, okay!” McCree nearly dropped the device in the sand. “Fuck, I’ll… I’ll see what I can do. Jus’... I dunno. Don’t die. Be there in a bit, Fawkes.”_

 

_After signing off, McCree grumbled something under his breath about a favor owed, and gave the archer a tired, tight-lipped grin. “Well, c’mon. Let’s not keep ‘em waitin’.”_

 

Hanzo grunted at a particularly hard bump that rattled his teeth. McCree had said they were headed a few miles west of the direction they had been traveling. Not horribly far from last night’s campsite, but it was enough to put them off track from getting to Gibraltar by late afternoon. Throw in however long it would take to assist the bandits and repair the gunslinger’s arm on top of that, and Hanzo would consider themselves lucky if they managed to get back on the road at all by the end of the day.

 

A metallic clatter came from down below followed by the cowboy’s boisterous voice. “Ain’t much further now! Get ready to bail out when we stop!”

 

He craned his neck down to shout against the wind. “There were gunshots over the ECHO device. Who are we fighting?”

 

“Honestly, your guess is as good as mine! These two piss off folks on an hourly basis!” McCree laughed heartily at his own joke. “Doubt it’s anyone we gotta worry ‘bout though; they’re dumb, but they know their limits!”

 

His confidence did little to calm Hanzo’s nerves. “Let us hope so. For your sake, and mine.”

 

“My sake? Aw, you’re worried ‘bout me!”

 

He rolled his eyes. “And now I’m worried I’m investing my time into the wrong bandit!”

 

“Hey, I told you before: I ain’t a bandit!”

 

“Well, whatever you are, make it something that gets us there quickly!”

 

“How many times do I gotta tell you, archer?” He could hear the smile in McCree’s voice. “I’m a Vault Hunter!”

 

A familiar wave of ‘oh, shit’ came over him. Not even a second later, the technical roared with new life. His stomach lurched as they rocketed forward, the handrail becoming a lifeline for him. Desert landscape blurred into a gritty orange blur, and Hanzo ducked low to avoid more dust in his eyes.

 

He wasn’t sure how long he stayed crouched in the turret chair. Between the whipping wind that clapped at his ears and the booming engine, he couldn’t hear. He couldn’t see from his position either. The only thing he could do was clutch the handrail for dear life because _this gunslinging adrenaline junkie was trying to kill him-_

 

The technical jolted to a stop, the brakes screeched, and Hanzo was carried forward by the momentum. His right shoulder collided hard with the mounted gun, and he wheezed in pain.

 

“Shit, you good up there, Hanzo?”

 

He gritted his teeth and hissed. “Fuck. You. Cowboy.”

 

He heard the man cut the engine with a chuckle and climb out of the front seat, spurs jangling as he landed in the sand. When the throbbing in his shoulder subsided, Hanzo jumped down from the chair and shot a stern glare at McCree before turning his attention forward.

 

Lying just ahead of them was a cavern entrance littered with broken signs and posts made from rusted old car parts, several having been spray-painted with warnings such as ‘KEEP OUT’ and ‘MINE-D!! UR STEP’. On some of the signs there were no words, but instead crudely drawn pictures of an exaggerated, cartoonish smile, and a jagged-looking tow truck hook. Similar to the bandit camp walls, the entrance to the cave was blocked off with several riveted metal panels. The center panel, however, was missing and the sides where the panels would have connected were bent inward, as if something had forcefully ripped the blockade off.

 

Hanzo readied his bow. McCree nodded at him, and they entered the cavern.

 

The air inside was hot and dry, if not more so than the Dust outside. It was stale, like the cave itself was a sealed tin of year-old rations, and a hot draft blew in from behind them for a short while before petering out as they rounded a corner. A trace of something sulfurous slowly drifted about as they made their way through the tall tunnel; it dried out the archer’s mouth with every breath and coated his lungs like cheap tobacco.

 

It was the kind of feeling that left a stone of anxious nerves in his gut, one that made his fingers twitch uncomfortably.

 

The natural light streaming in from the entrance dwindled and shrouded them in darkness only for a moment, as with the next sharp turn the tunnel opened up into an absolutely massive ravine. The midday sun shined brightly overhead, no longer obscured by the hollowed out mountain, and Hanzo blinked as he adjusted to the sudden change in light.

 

At the center of the ravine were a series of huts held aloft by several struts and cross-beams, all connected to one another by thick metal bridges. To their immediate left alongside the canyon wall was a similar bridge that snaked around until it connected to one of the platforms in the middle. Hanzo didn’t dare look below; he could tell the depth purely by the hollow wind that moaned between the legs of the houses and lazily rolled around the bowl of the ravine.

 

McCree held his one arm out in front of Hanzo and squinted. His eyes darted about, not spending more than a moment on any given spot. Hanzo held his breath and counted.

 

One. Two. Three. Four.

 

The other lowered his arm slowly. “...Looks clear.”

 

Hanzo clenched his jaw, swallowed the lump in his throat, and, softly, they tread forward. His fingers ached as they tensed around the string of his bow. Gravel crunched beneath their feet, and kicked pebbles tumbled off the cliffs with faint skittering taps.

 

An ear-piercing shriek thundered and a shadowy mass charged forward.

 

One of them - _both of them_ screamed.

 

Hanzo felt the arrow in his hands fly forward as he ducked behind a mound of dirt. Something flew by overhead, too fast to see.

 

He felt his stomach roll with him. His lungs were in his throat.  His hands shook and he clutched one hand to his chest. His heart hammered against his ribs. Boom, boom, boom.

 

A loud string of curses beside him. The cowboy was lying face down beside him, hand over his hat; rattled, just as he was. When he looked up, a thick patch of dirt coated his nose and cheek.

 

Hanzo narrowed his eyes at him. “You said _clear_!”

 

“I said it _looks_ clear!”

 

He glanced back at the bridge. “Well, how does it look now?”

 

There was a pause as McCree shifted to peer over the mound for a second or two, and he turned back to Hanzo with a blank stare.

 

“Looks clear.”

 

He could punch this man and feel nothing right now.

 

A distant, echoing explosion startled Hanzo as they stood to their feet. McCree frowned and started forward. “Stay close. Follow me.”

 

The gunslinger led them from platform to platform, metallic footfalls resonating throughout the open room, until they reached the other end of the cavern where another tunnel entrance greeted them. The alloy sheeting underfoot was damaged heavily, dented in some places and singed in others, with several blast marks on the ground that formed a trail that led further down the tunnel.

 

A pop of color caught Hanzo’s attention just as his foot hit something hard, the reverb of metal hitting metal making his leg jitter briefly.

 

Vibrant sky-blue scraps of metal cluttered the ground at their feet. Their movements slowed in order to step over long robotic limbs and wide-shouldered torsos that appeared to have been uniform in shape and structure but now lied strewn about like disfigured puzzle pieces. A smudged emblem was common among them, but they were too damaged to recognize at a cursory glance. The most intact frame looked as though it would have stood nearly seven-feet-tall.

 

McCree’s face was tense as he spun out his revolver.

 

They didn’t get far before they stopped again and Hanzo nearly tumbled forward when McCree hurriedly pulled them back around a corner. His question to the man was cut off by another deafening blast, the sounds of combat cacophonous with rapid gunfire that sounded far too mechanical to be mere weapons in hand.

 

This close to the brawl, Hanzo could make out two voices in bits and pieces. One was high, impossibly loud and speaking far too fast and cadenced for Hanzo to make out clearly; the other sounded like low rolling thunder, rumbling, raspy and obscured by something other than the fight. Both loud enough to register as voices, but their words were lost in different ways.

 

Another voice just then, but not human. Horribly processed and robotic, with no tone or inflection. This one he heard clearly.

 

“Lethal force authorized. Deleting.”

 

McCree swore and darted around the corner, Hanzo following in suit with an arrow at the ready.

 

There were two sides to this fight happening at once. On the right against the wall, a large man in a gas mask had something pinned under his arms, bright blue and sparking from a missing arm. On the left was the reverse, a robotic body had something in its grasp, soot-stained and scrawny. Hanzo took aim as McCree’s last bullet sounded.

 

The right one stuttered in its steps, and crumbled in on itself onto the floor. Its captive wheezed as the busted bot fell on top of them. Hanzo looked over at the man on the left just in time to see him place a great meaty hand over the robot’s head and swiftly yank it from its torso. Metal whined and wires snapped loudly, and it too collapsed on the ground in a heap.

 

Hanzo let out a breath.

 

One. Two. Three. Four.

 

_Rule four of Pandora: remember to breathe._

 

McCree holstered his gun and joined Hanzo as they strolled over to the twiggy human currently trapped underneath the mound of dead metal. Together with the man in the gas mask, the three of them pulled the other out from underneath the scrap heap with a heaving grunt.

 

The scrawny one gave a crooked, yellowed grin. “Ta.”

 

Hanzo opened his mouth to speak, but McCree cut him off, venom in his voice as he firmly yanked the smaller man up by the leather strap on his chest, causing him to _eep_ out in surprise.

 

“Hey, hey, outta my face, you-”

 

“Save it, Fawkes.” The Vault Hunter’s expression had shifted to something dark and stormy, and his voice was cold. “You plannin’ on tellin’ me what the hell’s goin’ on here?!”

 

The other bandit crossed his arms across his chest as if to say to his companion _‘Yes, why don’t you tell them?’._

 

A hard gulp. “I-I swear I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, mate! Honest!”

 

He heard the leather of McCree’s glove crinkle as his grip tightened. With a hearty shove, the gunslinger pinned the man against the wall. “I don’t wanna hear excuses here, Fawkes; I want answers. Tell me why the fuck Pandora’s _most powerful company_ is after your asses!”

 

Sparks from the ground drew Hanzo’s attention back to the robot. This close to the machine, he could now see the logo painted across the left shoulder clearly.

 

A powder-blue diamond floating above the twisted Vishkar ‘v’.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @cicada where's my money punk
> 
> as usual, you can find the amazing cicada over [here](http://thetiniestcicada.tumblr.com/) and me over [here](http://aerihead.tumblr.com/) on tumblr!!
> 
> [ the AMAZING comic that inspired a certain scene -w- ](http://thetiniestcicada.tumblr.com/post/165959113366/aerihead-i-will-give-you-ten-entire-dollars-to)


	9. Crouching Hog, Smelly Rat

 

To call the two bandits’ disheveled hovel a ‘home’ would be an insult in itself. 

 

The building, if one would even call it that, was nestled neatly in an alcove of rock and stone that overlooked its stilted brethren below. Its walls were made of a thicker steel plating than most Hanzo had seen before in bandit structures, though they were still heavily-dented and rusted at the corners. Crushed canisters, broken hunting traps, and all sorts of scrap were scattered haphazardly on the ground. Above the doorway was a washed-out neon sign that read, ‘ _ live, laugh, love _ ’ in chipped block lettering and underfoot was a filthy welcome mat that read, ‘ _ wipe your feet’ _ .

 

The inside was hardly any better than the outside; Hanzo was getting the sense that these two had a general theme of ‘organized chaos’. The one-room hut was furnished with hastily-built and mismatched pieces, all of which were coated with a thin layer of grit and sand thanks to the wind that whipped through the ravine. A long workbench took up a majority of the left wall, littered similarly to the outside with various tools, scrap metal, and blueprints that were too stained with oil and grease to read.

 

It was a space clearly meant for two and only two, and yet there they all were, the four of them crammed into this tiny, tiny shack. 

 

McCree sat the workbench. His one gloved hand gripped his knee tensely as his other arm laid outstretched in front of the one called Fawkes, or ‘Junkrat’, as the bandit had quickly introduced himself. His hands were a blur, busily tweaking this wire and that panel with a hardened focus that didn’t match at all the jittery man they had met just moments before. 

 

Seated on the couch beside Hanzo was the large man, Roadhog. He hadn’t said a single word since suggesting they all talk back at the shack - no one had, for that matter. The room was eerily silent, and had been for the last ten or so minutes after McCree had handed over his busted arm, save for the sounds of tinkering and occasional muttered swears under the bandit’s breath. 

 

“You know, I should be charging you for all this extra work you’re putting me through here! Almost don’t even recognize the damn thing at this point! Pah!” He held out a chipped red prosthetic palm towards McCree, not looking up from his work. “Wrench.”

 

Hanzo saw McCree’s face tighten into a scowl as he reached across the table and pressed the tool into the other’s hand with a solid  _ clack _ . “Considerin’ we just saved your hides, I think we’ve just about paid off that bill there, Rat.”

 

“Oh, it’s a ‘we’ thing, huh?” Junkrat looked over his shoulder at Hanzo with a toothy grin. He bared a shocking resemblance to the smiling graffiti. “You’re all buddy-buddy with Chuckles over there?

 

The archer gritted his teeth. Roadhog let out a wheezing sound that could have been a laugh, though he wasn’t entirely sure. His rasping, guttural voice grated on his ears like sandpaper, and made his skin crawl uncomfortably. 

 

McCree’s eyes darted over to Hanzo before turning back towards Junkrat, his frown deepening. “Yeah, we’re friends. There a problem with that?”

 

Another low, gruff chuckle boomed from beside him. “Since when do you do ‘friends’, cowboy?"

 

“Oh, c’mon, big guy! No need to tease!” Junkrat’s manic grin and giggles detracted from his ‘sincerity’ as he waved around the wrench wildly in his hand. “We’re all pals here! Friends helping friends helping friends, ain’t that right?”

 

Hanzo looked back to McCree, who caught his gaze for a moment before breaking away to look down at the floor. His brows were furrowed deeply, and his fingers dug into the fabric on his knee. It suddenly occurred to Hanzo that this had been the longest he had seen McCree make any sort of face that wasn’t a cheeky grin or some sort of half-cocked smirk, and the hardened, distant stare was beginning to look far too natural on the man. 

 

A look he was all too familiar with.

 

Hanzo crossed his arms across his chest and sat up straight on the couch. “If we are discussing debts, then there is still one of us who has not paid off his.”

 

The weight of everyone’s eyes suddenly staring at him felt like cinderblocks on his shoulders. The couch creaked and the heavy smell of motor oil burned his nose as Roadhog turned towards him. This close, he could see the dust that clouded the lenses in the mask, obscuring the man’s eyes from view. He faced forward in order to ignore the other’s glares, instead focusing on the man next to McCree.

 

Junkrat turned back to the arm on the bench, metallic clicks once again filling the empty air. “That so, eh? And who might that be?”

 

“You. You still owe us an explanation.” Hanzo watched the man’s back tense up as if he had been electrocuted, and a nervous energy took hold of him once again. McCree’s scowl broke into a small grin at that, and he considered that a personal victory for the moment. “Why are you being hunted by the Vishkar Corporation?”

 

He had heard of the company in passing several times in his youth. Clandestine board meetings between his father and Vishkar representatives, an array of products in stores and on machinery that all bore the company’s signature blue logo - they had become something of a household name in the past few years. Hanzo did not know a great deal of how the corporation operated or what their main focus was for that matter, but if sending military-grade armed robots was their way of taking care of unwanted pests, he decided he knew enough.

 

Junkrat spun around at the question, looking between McCree and Hanzo with a nervous cackle. “Oh, uh, th-that.”

 

Hanzo nodded. “Yes,  _ that.” _

 

“Ah. I see.” Junkrat cleared his throat.  “Well, uh…you know, ’hunted’ is such a _ strong  _ word, isn’t it?”

 

“Quit stalling and get to the point, Rat.” Roadhog boomed with a groan. 

 

The blonde pouted childishly at the man on the couch. “Oy, if you got a problem with how I’m saying it, then you say it!”

 

“Nice try. No.” He jabbed a meaty finger in Junkrat’s direction menacingly. “You got us into this mess. You’re saying it, not me.”

 

Junkrat, in turn, pointed a finger back at him. “Yeah, but  _ you’re _ pushing it!”

 

Roadhog huffed, and shifted forward on the couch so that he was looking down at Junkrat. “And _ you’re _ pushing your luck,  _ Jamison _ .”

 

“Hey, don’t you go first-naming me, you-”

 

“Oh, for cryin’ out loud!” McCree slammed his gloved hand on the table, metal clattering all about the bench. “Will one of you just tell us what the hell is going on already?!” 

 

Hanzo watched as both bandits froze almost comically at the outburst, Roadhog posed to stand up from the couch and Junkrat’s spindly finger still pointed up at the other’s face. Between McCree’s stone-cold stare, Junkrat’s excitable energy, and Roadhog’s unreadable expression, the room felt like a powder-keg with a match held dangerously close to the fuse.

 

The flame was snuffed when Junkrat finally huffed in defeat, deflating like a balloon before running a hand against the back of his neck. He let out another long sigh, and then looked back to McCree. 

 

“So… long story short, a couple of days ago, w-we, erm, might have…” His hand made a rolling gesture, his face in a grimace. “-stolen a... thing from Vish.”

 

The Vault Hunter arched an eyebrow. “And? You two steal a lot of things. Ain’t nothin’ new there.”

 

“Well, sure, but, ehm…” Junkrat looked to Roadhog, who only nodded back at him. “W-We maybe, might have, sort of-” He coughed and mumbled something into his fist far too fast for Hanzo to catch. 

 

_ Ka-thunk. _

 

McCree’s stool lay toppled by his feet, his eyes locked firmly on the hunched bandit. “What was that, Fawkes.” It was not a question.

 

A loud gulp. “I-I said… We might have stolen a... Vault Key.”

 

The background hum of the outside generator could scarcely be heard over the deafening silence that overtook the cabin. Hanzo watched a flurry of emotions come over McCree all at once: shock, anger, confusion, too many to name all in one setting. He felt a pull in his chest at the words and a sudden cold chill down his spine.

 

“You,” McCree paused as he chewed on his words, eyebrows knitted together in thought. “You stole... a Vault Key.” 

 

Junkrat swiveled back to the arm, busying himself as best as possible with tools and parts. His words jumbled and stammered together, ramming into one another as he spoke. “W-well, part of one. I mean, i-it isn’t the whole key, if that’s what you’re thinking! We’re not that stupid-” 

 

A hand came down hard on the metal bench, causing the tinkerer to yelp in surprise. 

 

“ _What the actual_ _fuck, Rat_!” Hanzo jumped at the voice that erupted from the gunslinger. “You stole a fucking Vault Key?!” McCree threw his hand up in the air and slammed it back down on the bench furiously. “Oh, oh, you ain’t _that_ stupid; you only stole a prized ancient alien artifact from the richest bastards on this goddamn planet!”

 

The couch shifted as Roadhog finally stood up to his full height, the top of his ponytail scraping against the ceiling of the shack. “Watch your tone, Jesse.”

 

“Watch my-? Oh, fuck that.” McCree turned to glare at the other, the heat from his anger all but radiating off of him as steam. “No, you don’t get to say shit like that, Hog. You really think I’d believe he stole that shit all himself? I  _ know  _ you helped him, helped this greedy lil’ shit get his hands on somethin’ he knew was dangerous to begin with!”

 

Junkrat sucked in an anxious breath. “Well…”

 

“Wait,” Hanzo frowned. “You did  _ know _ that you were going after part of a Vault Key when you stole it, didn’t you?”

 

Fawkes squirmed at the question, causing McCree to whip his attention back on the bandit. “Not, uh… Not necessarily, no.”

 

Both archer and gunslinger brought their hands to their faces, Hanzo to pinch the bridge of his nose and McCree to run his palm down the length of his mug with a long, drawn-out groan.

 

“I am almost afraid to ask how you even obtained the item.” Hanzo muttered low, feeling a headache growing between his eyes the longer he spoke with these bandits. He was beginning to see what McCree was referring to earlier in what it meant to ‘know the two like he did’. “Where did you even hide your treasure? You could hardly have it on your person.”

 

With little more than a quick, “On it,” Roadhog strode across the room in two broad steps to reach a locked cabinet in the kitchenette off to the side, and started rustling around inside. His wide shoulders blocked Hanzo’s view of what he was reaching for. 

 

Meanwhile, Junkrat grinned with a wild look of excitement now in his eyes as he tented his hands together. “We crafted a genius plan that involved subterfuge, a bit of spying on the enemy side, a well-thought out series of perfectly-placed mines, and then we-”

 

“-Blew up a passing train in the Tundra and raided it when no one was looking.” Roadhog called over his shoulder before resuming his search.

 

The other sputtered and went back to the arm, pouting. “Killjoy.” Junkrat stuck his tongue out at him when he turned back around. 

 

“I saw that, Fawkes.”

 

“Nu-uh!”

 

“Yeah-huh.”

 

“Guys, quit screwin’ around an’ get to the point!” McCree was incredulous. “Now, did I hear right in that y’all jus’ ... _ blew up _ a Vishkar cargo train? Just like that?”

 

“Yup.” A nod from the masked man, pulling something heavy from the cabinet with a woody scraping noise. Hanzo winced at the sound. “Put charges on the tracks. When the train came, we set them off-”

 

“-A feat of ingenuity by yours truly!” Junkrat intervened happily. 

 

“-Grabbed what we could and ran.”

 

The archer nodded along. “And in order not to get caught, you waited until you were safe to scour through your loot.” Hanzo sighed. “But by then, you had realized what you had and there was no way to return it safely.”

 

“Brrrring!” Junkrat laughed and nodded at the cowboy beside him. “Found yourself a smart lil’ pal-arooney there, didn’cha?”

 

“Rat, I swear to God-”

 

“Hey, hey, easy there, cowboy!” Fawkes quickly finished tightening something on the arm before turning to place his hand on McCree’s shoulder. McCree glared daggers at the offending hand, which the other jerked back with a small laugh. “And here I thought you of all people would’a been stoked to hear about a Vault Key, Mr. Vault Hunter, sir!”

 

“That ain’t,” He sighed into his hand heavily. “Th-that ain’t the point, Fawkes. This is…” McCree waved his hand at the door. “I mean, you jus’- you jus’ painted a big ol’ bullseye on y’all’s back. You saw it yourself: Vish ain’t gonna take this lyin’ down. When they don’t hear back from those loaders we all busted, sooner or later you’re gonna be dealin’ with more than just a few bots with guns here an’ there.”

 

At this point, Roadhog had returned back to the couch with a large metal briefcase in hand. It was about as thick as Hanzo’s bow case, and emblazoned across the front was the Vishkar emblem in blue along with neat letters that read ‘ _ Vishkar Corporation _ ’. 

 

That chilling pull from earlier was back, stronger than before, and the tips of his fingers felt hot. He tugged his jacket sleeve down just a bit further.

 

Sensing the rising tension in the room, Junkrat set down the tools on the table and held out the newly-repaired arm towards the gunslinger as a sort of peace offering. “I-in, uh, the meantime, looks like we’re all patched up! Few of the nerve wires got a lil’ toasty there, so had to replace ‘em. Should be good as new, though.” A pause. “Been awhile since you busted it like this! What’d you even do to it, mate?”

 

A wave of hot shame washed over Hanzo at the question, despite it not being directed at him.

 

McCree ignored the inquiry all together, thankfully, and instead snatched the arm from the bandit before locking it back in place with a hissing clasp. He tested the joints carefully, one by one. Thumb, pinkie, ring finger, index-

 

He stuck up his middle finger at Fawkes with a grin and a happy nod. 

 

Hanzo stifled a laugh at the scowl that crossed Junkrat’s face. “Oh, that’s real mature, mate.”

 

“You earned it.” McCree reached behind him and pulled out the small cigar box Hanzo had become somewhat familiar with. He plucked out one, lit the end, and took a long drag before exhaling a small plume of smoke. “Gettin’ back to the point though, we still got business to deal with here, Rat. What’s the plan? What’re we gonna do ‘bout all this?”

 

“Like hell if I know!” Junkrat grumbled, his peg-leg thumping against the ground in frustration. “If those suits know we nabbed it already, we don’t got a lot of options, now do we?”

 

“I’ll say.” McCree scratched at his beard, his lips curling around the cigar as he inhaled. “Screwed if we stay, and screwed if we don’t. They found y’all once, they can do it again.”

 

Hanzo stared down at the wrinkled leather of his gloves in his lap. There was also the unspoken issue of McCree and himself winding up in trouble the longer they stayed here to help. That ‘we’ the cowboy kept using was a perilous thing; unlike a scolding mother or a teacher, McCree never meant it to really mean ‘you all’. Just as when they spoke back at the motel, Hanzo knew that when McCree said ‘we’, he truly meant ‘you and I, together’. Despite his agitation towards the two, he was going to see this to the end.

 

A dangerous thought came to mind, too dangerous to keep to himself. “So to clarify, Vishkar knows you two have the key, and will stop at nothing to retrieve it.” He looked up from his hands. “We cannot all stay here, but we also cannot all leave.”

 

In lieu of the others’ answer, Mccree rubbed his chin, chewing on the end of the cigar before speaking. “Looks like the long an’ short of it, yeah.”

 

Hanzo turned to address Roadhog, the case resting on his lap as he sank back into the couch. “How many loaders did they send after you?”

 

“Dunno.” He paused and shrugged. “Three, maybe four. No more than that.”

 

“Let us assume it was the latter. That would mean they sent two for each of you.”

 

McCree frowned, standing forward up from the bench. “What’re you gettin’ at, Han?”

 

“Simply that Vishkar is underestimating our numbers.” Hanzo scanned the room, his eyes flashing between the briefcase, and the three others scattered around him. “They only sent what was necessary to apprehend two individuals. Therefore, they did not know of the two of  _ us _ , McCree.”

 

Dawning realization hit McCree in the face and made him swear into a palm. “...Oh, fuck me runnin’.”

 

A hand was raised cautiously as Junkrat stared hard at the archer. “Wait, wait, wait… are you sayin’ what I think you’re sayin’, mate?”

 

“I believe,” Hanzo smiled. “-it is time for a little game of keep-away.”

 

\-----

 

McCree clicked the latches of the briefcase, and threw back the lid, the back hitting the wooden table before them with a hefty  _ clunk.  _

 

Inside, the case was pitch-black, almost to the point of having no visible edges, and at the center was a large chiseled grey rock. Its sides curved inward, forming a rounded outside to its otherwise triangular shape. At its longest, it was about the length of his forearm. Purplish veins of some kind of ore ran through it, and emitted a strange glow that put the gunslinger on edge. The bright blue logo of Vishkar turned a sickly indigo under the light of the rock, and almost seemed to hum in time with the pulsing light.

 

Junkrat peered over his shoulder. “Well? What’s it look like, cobber?”

 

He shut the case with a sigh. “Can’t carry it like this. If Vish is smart, the case is rigged with some sorta trackin’ device. Probably how they found you two so fast.”

 

“Is there a way to disable it?”

 

The gunslinger shrugged at the archer. “No idea, partner. ‘Fraid I ain’t exactly the tech-y sort.” He wiggled his fingers on his left arm. “This here’s ‘bout the extent of what I can do.”

 

“And even then you need help!” Junkrat laughed loudly, which earned him a sharp glare from McCree. The bandit jumped and sucked his lips inward, buttoning his mouth shut.

 

Hanzo gave him a curt nod. “Then we will leave the briefcase, and find another way to transport the key. It would throw off Vishkar’s knowledge of either party’s whereabouts long enough for us to make our escape.”

 

The plan they had devised was simple, if not risky (though really, that phrase could just about sum up any number of decisions McCree had made in his lifetime). Rutledge and Fawkes would hide out somewhere else for a while and lay low, while he and Hanzo would take the key… wherever. They hadn’t actually discussed that last part too thoroughly, but he trusted Hanzo.

 

That is, he trusted Hanzo  _ more _ than he trusted either of the bandits, and right now, that was the more important part.

 

A wad of musty fabric hit his face just then, which was quickly followed by an ungodly, overwhelming stench. If rotten eggs, old milk, and whatever  _ ugly _ smelled like had this gross, horrific love-child, it was a custody battle none of them wanted to win. He retched, and coughed as he struggled to grasp at the whatever-the-fuck-it-was. 

 

Of course, what does one do, however, when they’re surprised? They gasp, inhale sharply, breathe suddenly. Round two had him practically gagging as the odor filled his mouth. McCree could hear manic laughter at this point through the thick woven fabric. 

 

Tearing the item from his face, he took a big gulp of air before turning to glower at the bandit doubled over cackling by the workbench. Only it wasn’t just Fawkes that was laughing: Hog gave a great guffaw and slapped his knee from the couch, and he swore he saw Hanzo’s shoulders shaking as he turned away, hand over his mouth. 

 

_ Betrayal at its worst. _

 

“Hilarious” He grumbled and glanced down at his hands. An old burlap sack, stained and dirtied from being in general proximity to the junkers, the rancid smell radiating off of the damn thing like a fog cloud. “God, what in the fuck did you two even do to this thing? Smells like skag shit picked a fight with death and  _ won. _ ”

 

Junkrat was still laughing (the little shit), and Rutledge only gained enough of his breath back to weakly wheeze out, “You don’t wanna know.”

 

That sent the two bandits back into another chuckle-fest, one that at least Hanzo recovered from after a few moments. Though upon catching McCree’s gaze, the corners of Hanzo’s lips quirked up slightly, and he gave a small sympathetic smile. 

 

McCree rolled his eyes at the still-laughing junker. “You done?”

 

“H-hoo, lemme- just- Christ, mate, should’a seen your face, like-” Junkrat’s eyes bulged and he stuck his tongue out at an unflattering angle. 

 

“Alright, keep it comin’ all you want, Fawkes, but jus’ so y’know,” He tapped the lid of the suitcase with a half-grin. “I heard there’s a nice reward for bringin’ you fellas in.”

 

Rat froze, clutching his stomach mid-laugh. His eyes flickered between him and the archer on the couch, as if the new face would offer some sort of sympathy (he didn’t, judging by his closed posture: arms crossed firmly across his chest and expression schooled into a stern glare). His chuckles faded into a nervous snicker. “O-Oh, c’mon then, th-there’s no need to get hasty! Maybe we could, erm, work something out, mate?”

 

Handing the bag over to Hanzo, McCree sat forward at the bench, hands clasped together and his lips pursed into a thin line.

 

“How’s ‘bout... we call ourselves even?” 

 

Junkrat seemed to melt back into his normal self again, laughing and shoving a stray box under the workbench. “Sure, yeah, yeah! Even, totally even! We’ll just forget ‘bout the whole thing with your face and the bag and-”

 

“On  _ everythin’ _ .”

 

“...Wait, what?”

 

“Everythin’.” He repeated slowly, turning to face the other fully. He was tired, and he hoped for once it showed on his face. “See, I’ve worked out the math on all this. Me an’ Hanzo here risked our hides for y’all once already. This here’ll be twice now.” McCree made a wide gesture towards the briefcase. 

 

“Wuh- no wait, mate, c’mon! You can’t be serious!” Fawkes placed a hand on McCree’s shoulder. “You’re jokin’ right? Right?” A nervous laugh and an elbow at Roadhog. “Oh man, what’d I tell you, Roadie! Knew the fella had a sense of humor in him somewhere!”

 

“Rat, I’m serious.” McCree shrugged off the hand. “Look, y’all saved my life once already, an’ I’m mighty grateful, but this is… This is where I draw the line.” He sighed heavily and tipped his hat down. “A man’s gotta have rules, Jamie.”

 

The case clacked open once more, and McCree got up to help Hanzo with the key. No one said anything more.

 

They left the canyon separately, McCree and Hanzo heading out first after saying their brief goodbyes to the bandits. It was little more than a short wave on the gunslinger’s end, and a confused, downcast one on Jamison’s. Rutledge only nodded. 

 

A blinding midday sun was their last send-off as they drove away from the Junkers’ Ravine.

 

They didn’t drive at breakneck speeds like they had before. There was no real need to. Crossing through the Dead Sands always felt like an eternity and a half, no matter how fast you went. Even after all this time, McCree couldn’t tell if it was because of the heat beating down his neck from the high noon sun, or the unchanging scenery of sand, grit, and rock. 

 

Hanzo had decided to sit in the back of the technical this time around. Told the gunslinger that there was little room for him to hold onto the key up in the turret chair; that, and he was tired of nearly breaking his neck every time they hit something. McCree reckoned it was more the latter than anything else.

 

That damn key weighed heavily on his mind all five hours that they drove.    
  
There was a part of him that was happy about the find. It was the part of him that called himself a Vault Hunter when people asked who he was, if only so that no one would call him a bandit to his face. It was the part of Jesse McCree who refused to let this lifestyle drag through the muck as it wished, the part that asked, “What’s the worst that could happen,”  _ during _ the worst that could happen.

 

It was also the part of him that was beginning to enjoy this partnership he had going with Hanzo, as strange and downright crazy at that may be. 

 

He shook his head, and blamed those passing thoughts on the heat. 

 

When they finally chose to stop and rest for the evening, they had driven for several hours, their only sense of time passing in this barren wasteland being the sun dipping below the horizon, and the sleep that clawed at their bones.

 

Just as they had the night before, they parked the technical under an archway of rock and stone. They made camp quietly: McCree tending the campfire while Hanzo set up their bedrolls in the flatbed of the technical. 

 

Just as before, they sat and stared at the crackling flames with only the sounds of nighttime bugs and howling winds to fill the air.

 

Just as before, Hanzo broke the silence with a question.

 

“Have you ever found a Vault?” 

 

He didn’t look up from the fire. “Nope.”

 

“Not a single one?” 

 

He shook his head in response, feeling the other’s discerning eyes on him as he spoke. The gunslinger sighed tiredly and pulled his cloak in closer. “I told you before, archer: no one’s a Vault Hunter ‘cause it’s easy. Vaults are hard to come by, keys even more so, an’ without either, you ain’t openin’ anythin’ anytime soon.”

 

There was a rustling, and suddenly, the grease-stained satchel was plopped down by his feet with a soft thud. The bright purple veins in the key stared back at him.

 

Glancing up from the flames, McCree wearily met Hanzo’s intense gaze across the way, those eyes as sharp and focused as when he drew back his bow for a shot. 

 

“...You’re joking.”

 

“I am not.” He clipped.    
  
McCree rubbed at his temples with his hand. “Han, I don’t-”

 

“That is not my name.”   
  


_ Here comes the headache.  _ “Hanzo- _ ” _

 

Hanzo folded his arms firmly across his chest. “McCree, I do not see why you are so reluctant. We have a chance to hunt and find a Vault; that is precisely what you do, is it not?”   
  


“No, it ain’t, seein’ as my current job, if I remember correctly, is to keep your ass  _ safe. _ ” There was something to the tone Hanzo used that made his blood run hot, like he was being accused of a crime he didn’t commit. He hated it, and he could feel anger forming on his tongue. “That’s what you wanted, right? What I’m bein’ paid to do? ‘Cause, partner, lemme tell you somethin’: you ain’t gonna be safe goin’ after a Vault.”

 

“And if I remember correctly, you claimed that nothing on Pandora is safe, so your argument is null and void.“ The archer frowned fiercely. “We should not let this opportunity go to waste. It is time to act.”

 

“Time to…? Oh, for the love of-” McCree threw his arms up in the air. “Hanzo, what the hell is with you an’ Vaults lately? You been here two weeks, an’ suddenly you wanna go explorin’ like some goddamn tourist!”

 

That earned him a proper glare from the other. “My reasons are my own.”

 

“Oh, they are, are they?” He shot a glare of his own right back. “So ‘cause of that, I’m just supposed to go along with whatever it is you wanna do? That it?”

 

Hanzo straightened his back. “This is not purely about what I want.”

 

“Really? ‘Cause it’s startin’ to feel like that.” The gunslinger sat forward with a scowl. “Help me get through this bandit camp, McCree. Drive me all the way to Gibraltar an’ be my guide, McCree. Hunt a Vault with me, McCree. You just gonna keep tackin’ on things to our little contract or what?”

 

“This has nothing to do with our contract.” Hanzo shook his head as he stood up.

 

The air was heated from more than just the fire that sat between them, crackling and popping as if adding to the rising voices around it. Standing to his feet, McCree narrowed his eyes at the shorter man. “Then why the hell do you wanna hunt a Vault, archer?”

 

Hanzo’s voice grew cold and even, like the steel heads of his arrows. “That depends: why do you  _ not _ , Vault Hunter?” 

 

McCree’s jaw hardened, and he fell silent. The words spoken cut deep, as he knew they would. The glare froze him in place, of course. However, as harsh as those two things had been, they weren’t what shut him up.

 

It was a faint shimmer, like fireflies in the summer. Past the orange light of the fire that settled on their clothes and skin, past the nightly shadows that stretched out all around them, past the archer’s steely glare boring deep holes into his.

 

Three blue teardrops under Hanzo’s left eye glowed, and his eyes flickered with a dull white light. It was only for the briefest of moments, but he saw it. 

  
He fell silent, as did the man before him, who could only stare up at him with dimming eyes that widened in absolute horror.

 

It was only for the briefest of moments, but after a time McCree found his voice again. He tipped his hat back, stood up straighter, and fixed his gaze on the dots under Hanzo’s eye. 

 

“Lemme ask you again, archer: why the hell do you wanna hunt a Vault?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DUN DUN DUUUUN!!!
> 
> as usual, you can find the amazing cicada over [here](http://thetiniestcicada.tumblr.com/) and me over [here](http://aerihead.tumblr.com/) on tumblr!!


	10. Rook to H4

 

 _The room is cold_ , the Man at the Desk thought to himself.

 

But, of course it was cold - it was always cold. The heating unit had been out of commission for nearly a month now, since Rogers was out on vacation to Aquator with the missus, and no one had gotten around to picking up the backlog of work he left behind.

 

Kelly said she would get to it, but the Man at the Desk knew Kelly would just sit around the break room and complain about people stealing her lunch. She never caught anyone doing so, but someone _had_ to be taking her low-fat strawberry yogurt and one half of a tuna sandwich.

 

The Man at the Desk stood up from his desk in his quiet office room, thus transforming him from the Man at the Desk to the Man in the Nice Suit. His legs were stiff from sitting in his otherwise comfy office chair, and so he began to stroll about the room, absent-mindedly looking out the large window that encompassed most of the back wall.

 

It had been a slow, slow day, one where he could practically count the minutes out in his head in time with the soft tick, tick, tick of the clock on his desk. He had tried listening to the ECHOnet, but the only frequency he had picked up were old news broadcasts of a now-dead city from the savage planet below, and he had quickly found the trite propaganda to be distasteful and crude at best.

 

A three-tone chime alerted him to a new message on his monitor. The Man in the Nice Suit returned to his desk and opened the missive.

 

| **COMPANY NOTICE:  
** |  
| Hypertrain VHT-62 carrying shipment E-P-0145  
| has been successfully recovered. Shipment was not found on-board  
| and has been confirmed to have been stolen thanks to security footage  
| obtained from surveillance cameras on VHT-62.  
|  
| Loaders were dispatched at 1100 hours, and were promptly deactivated  
| at 1202 hours. Suspects are to be considered at large, well-armed, and dangerous.  
|  
| Until further notice, all hypertrain activity will be halted as of IMMEDIATELY.  
|  
| If you possess any information on these men or the whereabouts of shipment  
| E-P-0145, please contact Security at 003-36.  
|  
| -Nathan Om, Security Management

  
  
The Man in the Nice Suit nodded to no one in particular and dialed the number for Security on his office phone. His call was answered by a delightful young man, who sounded winded as he greeted the Man in the Nice Suit, and introduced himself as Charles.

 

Ah, yes, Charles. One of the many temp agents they hired as of late. Or was he the intern he had heard about from Livvie at the water cooler, the one who had almost cried at orientation day?

 

In any case, they exchanged quaint pleasantries for a few short minutes before the Man in the Nice Suit addressed his issue.

 

“I was calling to speak about the email, actually. Yes, in Mr. Om’s email, he used the phrase ‘deactivated’ to describe the current status of our loaders in the field. Would you care to explain that one to me, Charles?”

 

Charles was quiet for a second and he cleared his throat. _“Um, M-Mr. Om was referring to, uh, th-the status of their internal processors and f-feedback received from their distress beacons. They seem to be, er, no longer functioning as of noon today, or, well, shortly after noon, and-”_

 

“Yes, yes, I understood as much.” The Man in the Nice Suit stood tall by his desk with a bright and sunny smile on his lips. “I was merely questioning why he thought it necessary to inform us of our company’s failures while simultaneously communicating that we have, in fact, _not_ apprehended those bandits. You know, the backwater, baby-eating knuckle-draggers that, for some reason, managed to get their grimy little hands on oh-so valuable Vishkar property?”

 

_“...Ah, w-well, um, th-that, sir-”_

 

“And, I’m no expert here, but it seems like in the time it took to send out that company-wide email, Natey-boy could’ve just- oh, I don’t know- sent out more loaders? Just a thought.”

 

_“Oh… Yes, he certainly-”_

 

“I also want to know whose authority Mr. Om was operating under when he made the decision to halt _all_ hypertrain activity. Now, I don’t know about you, Charles, but that just seems downright excessive, if you ask me.” He laughed humorlessly. “But, see, that’s the issue, now, isn’t it, Charles? No one _asked_ me, did they? Our buddy Nate certainly didn’t.”

 

Poor Charles shuffled on the other end of the line at that, sounding more and more nervous by the second. _“I-I’m s-sorry, sir. Fr-from my under, understanding of the s-situation, sir, Mr. Om, uh-”_

 

He shushed the stuttering young man quickly with a pacifying tone. “A-tut-tut, easy on up there, Charles, my boy. There’s no need to for you so worked up about this. I know this is hardly your fault, ‘Don’t shoot the messenger’ and whatnot. I’m not mad at _you._ ”

 

_“Y-you’re not, sir?”_

 

“Nooo, no. See, Charles, I’m only mad because Mr. Om thought he could make a company-wide decision behind my back, and we all know that doesn’t line up with our company’s ideas of community, togetherness, and open-communication, does it?” The Man in the Nice Suit stopped in his pacing around his desk and looked out his large window, down at the ugly grey planet below.

 

“And we _all_ want what’s best for the company, don’t we?”

 

There was a long, drawn out pause and a gulping sound from the other end. More rustling. _“...Y-yes, sir. Understood, sir.”_

 

“Good. Glad we’re all on the same page here, Charles- hey, can I call you ‘Charlie’?” The Man in the Nice Suit frowned. “Ew, no, let’s stick with Charles. That sounded all kinds of wrong outloud.”

 

_“I, uh-”_

 

“Alright, well, you’ve got work to do, so I’ll catch you later, Charles. Ciao.” The Man in the Nice Suit clicked off, setting his phone down back on the receiver with a sigh. He boredly thumbed at the red button on his intercom and waited for the short buzzing sound. “Oh, Quinn, my dear?”

 

The ever sweet and cheery Quinn answered with a bubbly laugh, as she always did. _“Yes, sir! How can I help you?”_

 

“Quinn, I’m sure you’ve already heard, but I’m going to need a couple of the guys from HR to go down to Mr. Om’s office today, pay him a little visit- it’s still in Tower 3, right?”

 

_“Yes, sir. Tower 3, division beta-five, sub-division twenty-eight. I’ve already put in the request, and they’ll be by during the lunch break to deal with him.”_

 

“Great, great, fantastic. Oh, and after they’re done, I want everyone to take extensive notes so that in the future, they all know what happens to folks who think they don’t need my input on these sorts of things Two pages, single-spaced, twelve point font, etcetera. They know the drill.” He paused. “They _should_ know the drill.”

 

He could hear her nod enthusiastically and smile through the receiver. _“Right away, sir! Do you need anything else right now?”_

 

The Man in the Nice Suit twirled the edge of his mustache in thought until his eyes landed on the computer file still open on his desk: the final draft of code for Project 5YM-m37r4. He grinned.

 

“How’s about you send our little tech-wizard up to my office? Anytime today’s fine.”

 

A pause as he heard the sounds of polished nails tapping against a keyboard. The Man in the Nice suit absently inspected his nails in the meantime. He really needed to get them done soon; his cuticles were looking ghastly.  

 

_“...Alrighty! She has been notified and… Oh! She says that she will be with you shortly.”_

 

“Perfect. Keep me posted, Quinn."

 

_“Of course! Have a nice day, sir!”_

 

He heard a soft clack from the receiver and the call ended. The Man in the Nice Suit set the phone back in its place, sat down comfortably in his plush office chair, and propped his feet up on the desk.

 

\-----

 

It had been stupid to run.

 

They were in the middle of nowhere on a planet made of nowhere. Wastelands surrounded them from all corners, and the only road to anywhere was trafficked by bandits and ruffians who wanted to skin them ‘forty ways to Lynchwood’, as the gunslinger would say. Not only that, but there was also the issue of the local fauna wanting to tear travelers limb from limb.

 

It had been stupid to run, but he did so anyways.

 

His feet brought him to the technical and helped him climb into the front seat. ‘Brought’ and ‘helped’, of course, were the words of choice. He didn’t recall making the decision to run. He never commanded his legs to start moving, and he certainly hadn’t told his heart to pound rapidly in his chest as if he had run a mile, not twenty feet. The only thing keeping him from turning back around was that the damn cowboy wouldn’t be far behind him; the man was too stubborn to let something like this just slip by.

 

Hanzo fiddled nervously with the key until he heard it click and turn in its slot, but there was no engine roar. He frowned, and turned it again. Still nothing.

 

“Come on, come on,” Hanzo muttered low, feverishly twisting the key over and over and over again.

 

Switching tactics, he began to wildly press any buttons he could find on the dashboard, and found: the radio (only static), the horn (a startling sound), and a cup holder filled with some kind of caked mud ( _please be mud_ ). He even tried the lever to his right, but he could only pull it so far back before it rigidly refused to shift down any further, and he growled angrily at the wretched thing.

 

It should have been simple: turn the key, start the engine, hit the gas, and go. It should be- it had to be simple. He _needed_ it to start, needed it to take him away from here, needed to get away so that McCree wouldn’t-

 

A hand grabbed his arm and he yelped.

 

“Hanzo!”

 

_No, no, no, no-_

 

The archer attempted to wrench himself out of McCree’s grasp, thrashing from side to side to escape the cowboy, borderline flailing like a small child being scolded by their mother.

 

“Goddamn it, Han- Would you just-”

 

“Let _go_ of me, you-”

 

“For cryin’ out loud, I’m tryin’ to-”

 

“Let me go, McCree!”

 

“Listen to me for-”

 

“McCree, I’m warning you-!”

 

_“Hanzo!”_

 

With a booming roar of his name, McCree finally moved around to meet his eyes with a hardened stare that could part stone, steely and cold like the fingers digging into his skin. His mouth was pursed into a thin line, and his jaw was tight as if he was biting his tongue behind his lips, swallowing down on unspoken words.

 

The space under the archer’s eye still burned like an open wound. In the back of his mouth, he could feel the residual aggravation making its way down the back of his throat, slowly being choked out by a growing dread. A heated coil in his gut twisted tight, tighter, tighter still. The gunslinger’s arms finally sagged and he half-sighed, half-groaned to the side, the way one does when they’re not sure if they should be angry or sad. Hanzo noted how McCree did not let go of him completely, though.

 

“I ain’t ...here to hurt’cha. Honest.” Hanzo tried not to scoff at the redundancy. He knew the man was honest - his eyes said it for him.

 

It did not, however, stop him from firing back, “Then, release me-”

 

“I ain’t finished yet!” Hanzo flinched before he saw the man’s expression fall slightly and McCree let out another sigh, deep and shaky, as if he was breathing out the tension in his grip. McCree’s voice was deafeningly quiet when he spoke again.

 

“...Han, I ain’t here to hurt’cha. I just wanna talk.”

 

“We have nothing to discuss.” The venom in his voice couldn’t even kill a fly, yet even so, he still sneered as though it were enough to take down an army.

 

“Then you don’t gotta say nothin’ - just hear me out.”

 

The air between them was brittle as they lapsed into a precarious silence, neither side sure of what to say to the other. McCree eventually dropped his hold on the archer’s arm and leaned against the other side of the technical, his other hand coming up to rub his neck. He could practically see all the questions the Vault Hunter wanted to ask on his face as well as the ones that died as he opened and closed his mouth, unsure of how to begin.

 

Hanzo paid little mind to this, his focus elsewhere. It was on the space between the frame of the door and where McCree stood, and how much effort it would take to squeeze through without the other grabbing him. It was upwards towards the opening to the turret chair, where he could climb up and jump off on the other side, thus giving him a head-start. It was on the fact that he knew he was faster than McCree, and how he could outrun him if given chase.

 

He could run, and he would run, because that’s what he did. What he always did.

 

The archer was pulled from his thoughts when he noticed something being pressed towards him. A well-worn flask, held outstretched by a gloved hand, the owner not entirely looking at him as he offered it.

 

McCree gestured towards the cannister when he received only a confused look from his silent companion. “You wanted it, right?”

 

He furrowed his brow. “What?”

 

“A drink. Y’know, back at the canyon? Said you’d want one after the job’s done.” When Hanzo made no move to take the flask, he sighed and moved to pocket it once more, though not without taking a long pull off the bitter booze. He made a pinched face, clipped back onto his belt, and turned to stare outward with a huff.

“You don’t trust me, do you?” Hanzo let his silence speak for him, and he heard McCree laugh dryly at that. “I don’t blame you. Haven’t exactly done anythin’ to earn it in the first place. I mean, what with the bandits, an’ the whole thing with the arm, an’ the Junkers - it’s a mess.” He sighed. “I’m a mess.”

 

He saw him rustle something out of his belt, a click of a lighter, and soon enough McCree had a lit cigar resting comfortably between his lips. The gunslinger inhaled deeply and blew out spiced smoke into the night sky in slow, lazy plumes.

 

“If it means anythin’, m’sorry.”

 

Hanzo gave him a cautious look and leaned away.“....For what?”

 

“For makin’ you run. Makin’ you feel like, like I ain’t safe to stay around. That one’s on me there, partner. Wasn’t my intention, an’ I’m sorry.” McCree plucked the cigar from his mouth, pinching it between his fingers while a thin ribbon of gray streaked off of the end. “Don’t blame you if you wanna go, neither.”

 

It was then that McCree turned to face him. “But I promised I’d help you, Hanzo, an’ I’m nothin’ if not a man of my word.”

 

The coil in his gut suddenly unfurled at those words.

 

“I don’t always get how you think, Hanzo, but…” He gave a small half-smile. “I’d like to think I’m startin’ to. I trust you an’ wanna help you however I can.” Pinching off the end of his cigar, he tucked it back into his pocket and offered out a hand towards Hanzo, his lips finding the other half of that smile.

 

“You wanna hunt a Vault? Then let’s do it. I’m here if you want me, partner.”

 

Hanzo’s eyes darted back and forth between the hand, and McCree’s beaming smile. He looked to the corners of his eyes, to his teeth, to anything that would give away his false kindness, and found... nothing of the sort in the man that stood before him. Not even a hint of insincerity could be found anywhere on McCree’s face, and suddenly, all of those past half-grins and smirks from the wily man seemed far more genuine in nature than he initially gave them credit for.

 

Jesse McCree trusted him, and Hanzo was shocked to realize that he had come to trust the Vault Hunter as well. He was equally shocked to realize how much he missed having someone to trust. How long had it been since the last time?

 

He turned in the seat to face the hand just as it began to withdraw.

 

_You will only get hurt. You know you will. Run. Run while you can._

 

“You are a strange one, gunslinger.” Hanzo let out a breathy laugh as the two gloved hands met in the middle, and shook once with a nod. “It is a deal.”

 

McCree in turn looked down at their hands, then back at Hanzo, and his lips pulled back in an even wider grin as he laughed, a pure and bright sound that made it easy to forget about the nagging fears in his head.

 

“Well, alright then, partner.” The cowboy tipped his hat at him. “C’mon. Let’s get some shut-eye ‘fore we gotta head off in the mornin’.”

 

Hanzo stopped as he began to climb out of the front seat. “We are still going to Gibraltar?”

 

There was a flash of excitement in the gunslinger’s voice, and a twinkle in his eye as he turned to Hanzo with a chuckle. “If we’re gonna do this, might as well do it right. I’ve got a few folks there who could lend us a hand in findin’ an ancient-ass alien cache. Real brainiac types who love this sorta thing.”

 

“Is that so?” Hanzo couldn’t help but smirk. “Let us hope this allies of yours are more reliable than the ones who lent you a hand before.”

 

McCree laughed loudly at that as he rested his hands against his sides, looking not at the archer beside him, but past him at the small dome of light out on the ridge where the Dusts ended, and the land known as ‘Three Horns Divide’ began.

 

“Believe me, partner - they are.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey look i can end on more than just a cliffhanger-
> 
> as usual, you can find me over [here](http://aerihead.tumblr.com/) and the amazing cicada over [here](http://thetiniestcicada.tumblr.com/) on tumblr!!


	11. oh worm

   


The air was filled with ash, crackled like lightning, and smelled entirely of burnt flesh.

 

Hanzo stood motionless only a few feet away from him, staring blankly up at nothing and surrounded by the blackened remains of the colossal beast before him. Blistered hide and skin sloughed off from the still-twitching tentacles in thick slabs, grit and dust mixing with the ichorous blood that coated the earth. The archer himself was nearly shrouded by the heat-warbled air and the thick, throat-coating dust that kicked up around them.

 

McCree didn’t immediately think of his own aches and bruises -- they’d make themselves known later. He didn’t think of how his eyes stung as if he had stared at the sun for too long, or the crumbled form of the technical against the cliffside to their right, or anything of the sort.

 

Instead, his mind wandered to a past conversation.

 

_Have you ever met one?_

 

Those words played on repeat as bright sparks of energy shimmered through Hanzo’s ripped jacket sleeve, and cast his battered body in bluish-white light.

 

_A Siren, that is._

 

McCree was scrambling towards the stumbling man by the time he saw Hanzo’s legs give out.

 

Very few realize that it never is an easy thing to catch someone as they are falling forward, however. It was a clumsy endeavor in the end; his arm curled around Hanzo’s front while the other rested on his shoulder, and his knees buckled awkwardly as he compensated for the sudden weight. Even his own voice felt off as he opened his mouth to speak. “Easy there, partner, I gotcha.”

 

“I…” Hanzo’s head lulled forward lazily against his arm. His breathing was sluggish and labored; it looked as though it took every ounce of strength he had to just open his eyes. He blinked slowly until the shining lights in his eyes dimmed back to their natural brown, and began to push himself up, only to falter and slump back weakly.

 

“Take it easy, Han,” he repeated. “No need to force yourself.” The Vault Hunter pressed a hand to his back to steady him further. “...You alright?”

 

The archer shook his head ‘yes’ limply. “I am fine, just…”

 

“Tired?”

 

“I...yes.” Hanzo trailed off, seemingly in a daze before coming back with a start. He barely raised his head to ask, “...Is it dead?” The gunslinger said nothing, but shot a look at the carnage all around them with a small smile playing on his lips. His companion chuckled, a breathy, dry sound that he felt more than heard. “Fair enough."

 

McCree shifted his weight on his feet, careful of the man in his arms. “Gonna start movin’ us now, Han. You good to go, or...?”

 

Hanzo paused, and sighed wearily. “I would not say ‘no’ to... a helping hand.” When he tried to hook an arm underneath the man’s left, however, he quickly stopped McCree with a hand to his chest and a shake of his head, “My arm- do not touch it.”

 

“Oh, shit, sorry.” The gunslinger pulled back quickly, scanning the man’s face for any signs of pain. “Does it hurt anywhere?”

 

“No.” Hanzo grunted. “I’m still...warm.”

 

“...Warm?”

 

Hanzo held up his left arm, the shimmering underneath the torn sleeve gently pulsing in a rhythmic heartbeat, hints of the swirling blue pattern peeking through the ruined coat. The leather of his gloves, the edges of the holes in his sleeve, and the left half of his jacket were all burnt at the ends and littered with holes. Even just holding up his arm made the space around it warm like an open flame, and the air faintly rippled in response.

 

_Have you ever met one? A Siren, that is._

 

Hanzo’s eyes locked with his in a distant stare. “Warm.”

 

\-----

  


_“We’ve passed that boulder before.”_

 

“I know, Hanzo.”

 

_“This is the third time now, McCree.”_

 

“I _know_ , Hanzo.” McCree hissed again through gritted teeth, his hands tightening in frustration around the steering wheel. He could practically hear the man folding his arms in discontent through their ECHOs.

 

_“We’re lost, aren’t we?”_

 

Casting his gaze out towards the ridge in the distance, he saw that the sand and grit indicative of the Dust was no longer present across the rolling hills and peaks. Instead, the soil took on a more earthy hue, a deep, rich brown that signalled the end of the dreaded desert wasteland and the beginning of the dreaded frozen wasteland of Three Horns.

 

It had been a long while since he had traveled out this way- probably closing in on eight years, maybe more. Frankly, he’d lost count. He knew they were close to the gate, but that was all he knew at this point.

 

He pressed his lips into a thin line and wheezed. “...No.”

 

 _“McCree--”_ Hanzo huffed on the other end of the line, a crackling and harsh noise against his ear. He made a note to fix his ECHO device when they reached town; damn thing was due for an update.

 

“Hey, hey, we’re still good on time here. We’re makin’ progress.” He bit back the urge to remind Hanzo they weren’t on much of a timer, remembering the flat look he had been shot by the other. “Look, I just... got a lil’ turned around back there at that bandit hut we passed. We’re fine. You don’t need to worry so much.”

 

_“You say that as if you are not.”_

 

McCree snorted. “Han, if I’m worried, it means we are one-hundred percent, truly an’ thoroughly fucked. We’re not fucked, so I’m not worried. Simple as that.”

 

 _“How reassuring.”_ He definitely heard the eyeroll on that one. _“You know ‘Han’ is not my name.”_

 

“It’s part of your name. That’s gotta count for somethin’, right?” He smirked into his headset and rested an arm on the metal bar to his left. “What, you prefer somethin’ like _jefe,_ or boss, or Hanzito--”

 

_“--Enough, Vault Hunter.”_

 

“You know, ‘Vault Hunter’ ain’t my name either.”

 

_“It’s a description of yourself. That must count for something, right?”_

 

“Oh, now you’re just bein’ petty.”

 

 _“Petty, he says.”_ There was a bark of laughter in his ear. _“You have called nearly everyone we have met so far by a nickname in some strange way, shape, or form; am I not allowed to do the same?”_

 

McCree smiled to himself and shrugged. “Alright, fair enough, Sassy-pants.”

 

_“That’s Mr. Sassy-pants to you.”_

 

“My apologies, Mr. Sassy-pants, sir.” He chuckled. “Won’t happen again.”

 

_“Good. Now focus on the road. I will let you know if I see anything.”_

 

Of course, despite what Hanzo had said, McCree felt at ease knowing there was very little to watch out for in the strange valley between the Dust and Divide. It wasn’t like the desert where the reigning bandit clans had long ago earned the barren dunes the title of ‘The Dead Sands’ through bloody conflict and territory wars; rather, it was the crossroads, a place where people passed through and kept to themselves as much as they could.

 

Sure, there were bandits that set up in odd shacks and camps alongside the roads, but it was nothing they couldn’t handle. The local skags were too slow to keep up with the technical, and if they happened upon a herd of bullymongs, it’d be easy enough to skirt around their den without disturbing them.

 

The unkept road winded through turns and brief cavernous overhangs before emerging back out into broad daylight, a lukewarm light that was growing more and more appreciated with the chilling air around them. Hot and cold were in a constant battle in the valley; patches of snow and patches of dried grass seemed at a loss as to who belonged there more. The geysers of hot steam that erupted from the ground only added to the confusion of the landscape.

 

McCree bundled up further into his serape, the frigid wind rushing into the technical blowing straight through him. It had been years since he’d set foot into Three Horns, and the cold was starting to remind him why that was the case.

 

 _Well, one reason, at least._ He wrestled that intrusive thought back with mixed success.

 

Their first deal had been fine when it was just getting Hanzo to the city, like dropping off a package at a post office. Now, it was more like he was part of the package. He knew he couldn’t take it back, couldn’t just up and say to Hanzo, “Gibraltar’s a no-go for me, boss, sorry.” He was a man of his word: always has been, and he planned to keep it that way, no matter how things changed.

 

They passed a sign for the city, and McCree gripped the wheel tighter as they made a left at the fork in the road.

 

 _“Movement detected on the left.”_ Hanzo cut in over the ECHO. _“Twenty meters out. Disappeared before I could shoot.”_

 

“Disappeared?” McCree let his foot off the gas gradually, and came to a rolling stop. He swiveled in his seat to look out the window in the direction Hanzo was facing, but saw nothing but banks of snow and dirt. “Think it was bandits? We passed a hut a while back; they might’ve followed us.”

 

 _“No. They gave up after I shot two of them down. ”_ Hanzo hesitated. _“It was too large to be a bandit. It looked… like a squid, I think. Large head, tentacles… I only saw half of its body before it--”_ He heard the man’s breath seize, and then silence.

 

“Hanzo?” Nothing. “Han, you there?” He heard a bowstring being pulled back, and his chest mimicked the tight draw of the weapon, clenching and constricting his lungs painfully. A bolt of panic zipped down his spine. “Hanzo, what’s goin’ on?”

 

_“...It’s back.”_

 

McCree's heart leapt into his chest. “Hanzo, what are you seein’? Talk to me--”

 

 _“The creature, small. I assume it is a child.”_ A pause. _“I have a clear shot. It does not see us.”_

 

He lurched in his chair with a speed that surprised himself, and shot his head out the window to yell, “Han, wait, don’t--”

 

A soft _thwip_.

 

Then, a horrific, pained shriek rattled his core.

 

The earth shuddered. A deep, hollow roar shook the very ground, the echoing screech of something utterly and truly fucking massive shattering the stillness around them. Past the flatbed of the truck, McCree could see the soft ground shifting, slithering like snakes in the sand.

 

Another choir of warbling cries, and four large, snake-like creatures burst through the earth. Their toothy maws opened wide, and their side-set eyes darted rapidly. They cried out as their tentacles flailed and cracked like whips. The spines on their heads and backs stood on ends like hair on a cat.

 

His blood ran cold. “Archer, hold on.”

 

_“What?”_

 

They all turned their bulbous heads towards the technical and howled.

 

“Hold the fuck on!”

 

McCree shifted gears and slammed his foot on the gas. Once more, his stomach was plastered to his ribs as they rocketed forward. All sound was lost to the wind that kicked up, the roar of the engine, and the Vault Hunter’s heart pounding in his ears. His fingers gripped the wheel for dear life as another beastial war cry rebounded in the valley.

 

_“--cree!”_

 

“Agh!” He flinched at the booming voice ringing in his head. “ _Fuck me runnin’_ \-- what, Hanzo?”

 

_“McCree, what is happening?!”_

 

“What’s happenin’? Oh, for the-- You shot at ‘em, that’s what!” He made a lurching right, narrowly missing a sudden ditch in the road. The gunslinger heard Hanzo yelp in surprise, and shot back a quick, “You alright?” into his ECHO.

 

 _“I’m fine.”_ An arrow whistled in the background. _“Why are they still chasing us?”_

 

“They’re threshers, it’s,” A tree-like limb shot up from the ground, and he swerved to dodge it. Something impacted against the side of the technical and jolted the whole frame. “ _Fuck--_ It’s what they do! You kill one, they all come after you!”

 

_“You said those were bullymongs!”_

 

“Look, just assume everyone’s an asshole around here, okay?” Out ahead of them, he saw a burrowing trail coast past them, big, _far bigger_ than before, and faster.

 

More impacts smashed against the metal hide of the truck. Something crumbled, and he felt the truck buckle to the side. There was a piercing whine, a loud pop and hiss. McCree lurched in his seat at two more slams to the side. The tires screeched against the asphalt, and the truck began to fishtail on its own.

 

He tried and failed to steer. He could faintly smell smoke from behind. Not more than half a mile ahead of them was a large rocky cliff face, and a turn in the road he knew they wouldn’t make. The burrowing trail had stopped, and the air began to burn his skin.

 

Gritting his teeth, the Vault Hunter turned to his side, and grabbed hold of the frame of the truck, taking his foot off the gas. “Han, we gotta bail, now!”

 

_“What?”_

 

“Now!”

 

He jumped with only old instructions in his head.

 

_Hands in. Land on your back. Brace for impact; this is gonna hurt._

 

The wall of wind hit him first, an invisible brick of force that left him gasping as he hit the ground. McCree curled in on the pain on his left side with a wheezing groan. His vision spun as he skid along the ground like a hockey puck, ice and rock alike kicking up into his face and grating against his skin. Something caught on his shirt sleeve and tore through it like paper, digging a deep gash into his arm.

 

Fuck whatever people said about adrenaline killing pain; everything stung like a bitch and it hurt even more when he finally slid to a stop thirty feet away. He could hear his blood pounding in his ears. _Thu-thump. Thu-thump. Thu-thump._

 

McCree had barely found the strength to lift himself onto his elbows in time to see the abandoned technical ram headlong into the cliffside. A terrible crashing noise was the last sound from the battered truck before it burst into flames, and was quickly consumed by smoke and soot.

 

He heard a grunt, and craned his neck back towards the sound to see Hanzo sprawled across the ground on his back. From this distance, he looked battered from the jump, but alive. A feeling of relief and mild amazement swept over McCree when he saw the other attempting to stand already.

 

A column of fire erupted between them, sending them both flat on their backs once more, and from the inferno emerged the biggest pyre thresher McCree had ever seen in his goddamn life.

 

Looming over the two men on the ground, its visible torso alone was every inch of fifteen feet tall, its skin bathed in bright-orange flames as its very presence sent out waves of a blistering heat unlike any he had ever known. The other threshers that surfaced alongside the leviathan were dwarfed in comparison to its massive form, the full-grown beasts looking more akin to tadpoles than to adults.

 

It glared down at McCree with white-hot beady eyes, let out a piercing cry, and arched a single tendril high into the air.

 

The cowboy rolled out of the way of the slam, snow sloshing up in its wake. There was a whipping sound, and he tumbled to his knees to avoid the spikes tossed at him from the smaller threshers.

 

Shaking limbs, heart hammering. Pain lacing through his limbs. He tried to stand, and he crumpled inward.

 

There was a low hum.

 

A loud crackling like a thousand whips.

 

“McCree!”

 

Behind the threshers, Hanzo was on his feet. Arm raised outward, his left side shimmered under his jacket. Shimmers grew, and grew, and grew into an impossibly bright light, and began to ball against his palm. Energy arched across his entire body, ribbons of electricity sparking out from his body.

 

Sharp eyes flashed pure white.

 

_“Get. Down!”_

 

McCree ducked low, and watched as everything was engulfed in a blistering haze of blue light.

 

\-----

  


There was a heavy silence between them as they trudged along the road to Gibraltar, a resilient pause that stubbornly refused to be drowned out by neither the pounding of steam pumps and generators in distance, nor the crunch of packed snow beneath their boots. In a lot of ways, the still quiet reminded McCree of the split-second between loading a bullet and pulling the trigger, and for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out which way the gun was pointed.

 

The archer looked downright exhausted. He was favoring his left side, his arm hanging down by his hip like dead weight, and though his eyes seemed trained on the path ahead, it was clear his mind was elsewhere, his brow knit together in thought.

 

It made it all the more startling when he finally did speak.

 

“You are staring.”

 

McCree sputtered. Sheepishly, he dropped his gaze with a tip of his hat. “Oh, uh, was I now? Shoot, didn’t mean to, honest. Sorry ‘bout that.”

 

“It is… fine.” He thought that was the end of that conversation until Hanzo sighed heavily. “You can ask me.”

 

“Ask you? Uh, ask you… what exactly?” The Vault Hunter watched as Hanzo kept his eyes ahead, and wordlessly gestured with a nod to his arm. “Ah. Right. That whole, uh… thing. With the thing.”

 

“I am surprised you did not ask earlier.”

 

“Well, it ain’t like we had the time to sit down an’ chat over tea an’ cookies.” He gave a half-shrug, careful of the arm still draped across his shoulder. “Besides, wasn’t my place to.”

 

Hanzo raised an eyebrow. “Your place?”

 

“I told ya before, remember? You don’t gotta tell me nothin’; I ain’t here to pry. Sure, some shit’s changed since when I told you that, but... I keep my word when I give it, archer. Cross my heart, an’ all that jazz.” McCree said plainly as he adjusted his grip on Hanzo’s arm. “Nothin’ else to it.”

 

There was an odd solemness to the man’s chuckle at that, the half-smile on his lips more like a scowl than anything else. “I suppose so.”

 

Any other day and McCree would have been fine letting the conversation fade gently, but the way things had played in the past three or four days alone told him to not look a gift horse in the mouth.

That being said, it was surprisingly hard to get the plane off the runway and up in the air now that he had been cleared for take off.

 

“So, uh,” He chewed on his words carefully, but none of them felt quite right. _Might as well just come out and say it then._ “You’re… a Siren.”

 

The muscles in the arm against his neck flinched. “Yes.”

 

“A Siren. Fancy tattoos, crazy-ass powers, six of...you in the whole universe.” He paused, not sure where he was going with this train of thought. “Typically…?”

 

“Yes.” He sighed like someone who had answered this question more times than he could count. “Typically female.”

 

“But you don’t…?”

 

Hanzo scowled. “No, I do not. I have found that my identity as a Siren has little to do with my identity as a man.”  Another pause, and he turned that piercing scowl right at him. “Do you have an issue with that?”

 

McCree’s eyes widened and he shook his head. “Wha-- no! No, no, no. Not at all.”

 

The archer stared at him for what felt like ages, raking over his face with those hawk-like eyes of his, but ultimately faced forward when he didn’t find anything. Or, maybe he found the thing he was looking for; it was a toss-up with him. Unlike most people, Hanzo’s expressions were becoming harder and harder to read the better he got to know the man.

 

“Shit, though. A Siren.” He whistled low. “So, you’re a Siren… runnin’ from home. I take it I can’t ask why, but… what made you wanna come here then? Pandora ain’t exactly a vacation resort planet like Aquator.”

 

Hanzo stilled, forcing McCree to come to a stop alongside him. That anger-fueled frown from before had smoothed into one of deep thought, as if he was trying to find the right words to say. McCree started to say something, to let the archer know he didn’t have to talk if he didn’t want to, but Hanzo held up a hand to silence him.

 

“I left because I was no longer welcome. And…” His eyes fell to the ground, then dragged back up to meet McCree’s warily. “I came here because I did not know anything of myself away from home.”

 

They began walking again as Hanzo continued. “For years, I was told what a Siren was supposed to be. A person destined to become something great, powerful. Someone to instill fear and obedience into enemies and allies alike. A tool of war.” He recited the words as dutifully as a soldier. “A weapon.”

 

His eyes darkened. “Someone... I once knew told me that I was more than a sword to be wielded. I did not know what he meant then, but I do now. When it came time for me leave Hanamura, I realized I knew very little of my heritage, of what a Siren actually was as opposed to what my--” Hanzo winced. “What _I_ had been taught.”

 

“...An’ you come here to learn more ‘bout Sirens right from the source, instead of hearin’ everythin’ secondhand.” McCree became acutely aware of the key in the satchel digging into his back.

 

“I did not intend to get myself involved with Vault Hunting.” Hanzo then quietly admitted, “...Initially, that is.”

 

McCree laughed. “Yeah, well, folks ‘round here have a sayin’ for that: everythin’ on Pandora leads to a Vault.”

 

“So I’ve noticed. I also did not expect to run into a Vault Hunter quite so quickly, and yet here we are.” Hanzo huffed and shook his head with a hint of a smile, “It seems fate had other ideas in store for the two of us.”

 

“Fate, huh? What, you don’t think it was my charmin’ ways that drew you to me?”

 

Hanzo snorted and pushed against him, making the two of them stumble. “It was definitely not that.”

 

McCree put a hand to his chest dramatically. “Oh, you’re killin’ me, angel.”

 

“Angel?” The archer gave him an incredulous look.

 

He nodded. “You’ve saved my ass more times than I can count. Add on some really badass powers an’ one hell of an aim, and you, my friend, are a bonafide guardian angel.”

 

A series of emotions flashed across Hanzo’s face, many of them unreadable, before he shook his head and broke out into a cheeky grin. And that was the last thing he saw right before he was knocked right into the snow bank.

 

McCree frowned as he scrambled to climb out of the heavy snow while Hanzo laughed loudly at his expense, doubled over with his hands clutching his stomach as if he had just seen the funniest thing in the world. With a grumbling huff, the Vault Hunter grabbed a handful of snow and flung it at his companion. The half-assed snowball scattered against his face, and now it was McCree’s turn to laugh wildly and unabashedly.

 

“Ridiculous.” Hanzo muttered as he helped pull the Vault Hunter to his feet.

 

“An’ don’t you forget it.”

  


\-----

  


The rest of the walk was spent in relative silence, though Hanzo much rather preferred this one to the tension from before. While there was no doubt in his mind the cowboy would think of more questions later on, McCree seemed to be sated with the answers he had been given for now.

 

But, of course, that was a hurdle for another day. Right now, their current hurdle was the large, looming outerwall that protected the city of Gibraltar from the outside world.

 

Unlike the ramshackle bandit structures he had seen up until this point, the wall was properly structured and entirely composed of concrete and heavy steel with cliffs and snowbanks rising up to meet the thirty-foot high construction in places. A large metallic door set into the ground divided them from the path to the city, which he could just barely see on the hill behind the wall itself.

 

“Well. Here we are, partner.”

 

McCree’s voice was filled with both reverence and fear, a strange mixture that sounded relieved and hollow at the same time. He fiddled with the ends of his serape, and Hanzo was sure he didn’t realize he was doing so until he called out to him.

 

“Are you alright?”

 

“Hm?” McCree jolted from his thoughts. “Oh, yeah, yeah. Just been a while since I was here. Gibraltar wasn’t in the best of shape when I left, an’ feels odd comin’ back to a place that used to be a pile of ash.” He scrunched up his nose. “Like... visitin’ an open grave that’s been turned into a skyscraper.”

 

The archer shuddered, the mental image striking a chord deep within him. “I… had no idea you had such a history with Gibraltar.”

 

“Not many do. Left before it was even called Gibraltar, before Overwatch fell.”

 

Overwatch. The name sounded familiar to Hanzo, something he might have heard once or twice in his travels, but currently nothing was coming to mind. He opened his mouth to ask the Vault Hunter but suddenly felt a large swath of fabric draped across his shoulders, and turned in time to see its owner silently making his way towards the large intercom box stationed just outside the door.

 

The archer shot McCree a look of confusion, and it wasn’t until McCree briefly held up his own left arm that he understood the intent. He tugged the warm cloak across his left side, and joined up the cowboy quickly.

 

A faint buzzing sounded from the box as McCree rang the intercom, followed shortly after by the teal holo-screen manifesting before them. On-screen was a video-feed from what looked like an old, dingy security room. A soldier was sitting in the center of the screen with their boots propped up on the desk, the soles of their feet taking up one corner of the camera.

 

The sound crackled into static briefly as they groaned in annoyance. Despite the upper half of their face being obscured by their visor, the soldier’s agitation was clear in their voice.

 

_“I won’t say it again, bandits. Next time you ring that buzzer, I’m going to personally come down there and--”_

 

They stopped and sat forward, looking straight at the two of them. With one hand, they shakily flipped up their visor to reveal brown eyes wide with disbelief, one of which was tattooed with a swirling black mark.

 

_“...Jesse?”_

 

McCree took off his hat and let out a deep breath with a smile. “Howdy, Reeha. I’m home.”

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope everyone's holidays have been great so far!! 
> 
> i know i haven't been pumping these chapters out very fast but thank you all so much for your patience and your support and everything!!! y'all are great!!!
> 
> as usual, you can find me over [here](http://aerihead.tumblr.com/) and the amazing cicada over [here](http://thetiniestcicada.tumblr.com/) on tumblr!!


	12. This is a Thing Now

 

The security guard, Reeha, stared at the two of them. Carefully. Analyzing. She blinked at them slowly, as if they, or more so Jesse, would disappear from her view if she closed her eyes for just a second too long. Hanzo could see her mouth trying to move, trying to shape broken sounds into possible words, but in the end she couldn’t find her voice.

 

Just as the cold air began to seep through the cloak on his shoulders and the stretch of silence became near unbearable, Fareeha huffed dejectedly and her expression dropped.

 

 _“I’m sorry, I-I thought you were someone else for a second. Forget I said anything.”_ She sat up straight, her demeanor shifting to that of a hardened guard once again. _“Can I help you two? Who are you? What do you want?”_

 

Hanzo stiffened at her sudden change in attitude, and looked to McCree, who seemed just as taken aback. “Wha-- What do you…?”

 

_“Please state your names and business within the city.”_

 

“I-- Fareeha, it’s me, ol’ Jesse, honest! I ain’t fibbin’, or nothin’!” There was a mix of hurt and guilt that flashed across McCree’s face at that, and his grip on the hat in his hands tightened. He cleared this throat nervously. “Look, I know it’s real sudden, me showin’ up outta the blue like this, an’ I’m… God, ‘sorry’ doesn’t even cut it at this point, I’m sure, but I really need your help--”

 

 _“Stop, just. Stop.”_ Her face hardened abruptly. _“You’re not him. You are not Jesse McCree. You can’t be, so just… drop the act, stop messing around, and either tell me who you are, or leave so I can get back to work protecting this city.”_

 

Hanzo scowled at the guard on screen. “Why are you so certain it is not him?”

 

 _“Because I know,”_ She gritted her teeth. _“...Knew Jesse personally. He was a good friend of mine for many years. Like family, really.”_ The woman shook her head fiercely and fixed her sights on the both of them once more. _“Therefore I don’t appreciate people making a mockery of his name. And if there is one thing you should know, outsiders, it’s that you don’t mess with my family, past or present.”_

 

“Past, you said. Then,” Hanzo furrowed his brow and cast a wary eye to the man in question. “He is no longer with us? Jesse McCree is…?”

 

The soldier flinched visible at his words. Even through the somewhat hazy picture of the security feed, the archer could see the glossy look of her eyes and the way she bit at her lip to keep a stern face. She scrunched up her nose sharply, and wiped her face with a rigid motion.

 

_“Yes. He… Jesse McCree has been officially declared dead by the city of Gibraltar for a number of years now.”_

 

There was a solemness to the chilling air as she spoke, her voice taking on an official tone that sounded over-rehearsed, and Hanzo curled into the serape that much more. Beside him, McCree placed his hat back on his head, tilting it down over his eyes.

 

“My apologies for your loss. Losin’ family… it ain’t easy.”

 

 _“No. No, it’s not.”_ The speaker in the intercom box crackled as she sighed. _“Look, if you two have any actual business within the city of Gibraltar, I suggest you just give me your real names and hurry along. Otherwise, I am going to have to ask you to leave the premise.”_

 

The moment of quiet snowfall and the holo-screen’s buzz was one that no one seemed to want to break, but one that had to be broken in the end by McCree. “Well, I don’t wish to trouble you any longer. Reckon it’d probably be for the best if me an’ my partner took our leave, then. Sorry to waste your time with all this, Reeha.”

 

Fareeha said nothing, only nodding sullenly. Hanzo moved to speak up, but stopped when he suddenly felt a firm hand on his shoulder, and he turned towards the Vault Hunter to his side.

 

“C’mon, angel.” McCree gave him a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “We’ll… figure somethin’ out.”

 

Hanzo’s gaze flickered back and forth between the woman on the screen and to McCree before giving into the somber look of the gunslinger and nodding sullenly. As the screen closed and they began to walk away from the door, the Siren saw that look go through a myriad of emotions in short span of time.

 

Sadness, then a flash of frustration, then sympathy, confusion. His eyes swam through unseen thoughts and his lips pressed into a thin line. The one that took Hanzo by surprise, though, was when he paused mid-step, staring upward as if to recall something, and then his frown fell. A small smile, just the faintest tug of his lips into a smirk, crossed McCree’s face.

 

He hadn’t even said a word to the archer before pulling the both of them back to the door in a wild sprint, jabbing at the intercom button with just as much excitement and gusto. The holo-screen flashed into existence, faster than before, and once again, Fareeha the security guard was staring back at them curiously.

 

 _“What now? I thought you--”_  


“The mug.”

 

She leaned forward. _“The mug?”_

 

“The mug.” McCree repeated, somewhat out of breath. “Morrison’s mug, the one we wrote on. Remember?” When she remained silent and continued to stare back at them with wide eyes, McCree’s smiled a bit wider. “Aw, now don’t you go tellin’ me you forgot ‘bout the dick mug!”

 

“The… dick mug?” Hanzo folded his arms under the cloak. “I’m almost afraid to ask. Almost.”

 

“Oh, uh, heh,” The cowboy turned to his companion and scratched the back of his neck, laughing. “Alright, so, long story short, me an’ Reeha wrote ‘I’m a dick’ on the bottom of this guy Morrison’s mug. Every time he took a sip, bunch’a folks an’ I would have to hold our breath tryin’ not to laugh at the fella. Took him two months to realize it, too; reckon he figured somethin’ was up when we couldn’t listen to any of his lectures without crackin’ up.”

 

Hanzo couldn’t help but roll his eyes. “How mature of you.”

 

“Hey, a couple’a kids surrounded by stuck-up adults in a dead-ass wasteland? That was the funniest damn thing we had ever seen. Have to get your laughs in somehow, right?” McCree nudged the archer with his elbow and a wink. “C’mon, I know you’ve pulled a prank or two like that before, angel. You can’t fool me.”

 

“I’m not saying I haven’t. Far from it actually.” Hanzo admitted with a small grin. “I’m not a complete bore, despite what you might believe.”

 

The cowboy blinked in surprise.  “No shit, huh? Then what’s with all the sass you’re givin’ me?”

 

Hanzo shrugged. “I merely think the prank itself seems… uninspired, given what I’ve seen of you thus far.”

 

“Oh, that so? Didn’t realize you had such _refined_ pranks where y’all’re from.”

 

“Now who is giving whom sass?”

 

Whatever witty reply McCree was going to say was swallowed up by the heavy wenching sound of the large door splitting down the middle, metal screeching on the old tracks beneath it. Slowly but surely, it slid apart to reveal the rugged road path leading to Gibraltar, the tops of buildings rising just above the inner wall..

 

Hanzo had little time to admire the rest of the surrounding scenery, however, as another sound filled the air.

 

“Jesse!” The elated cry and flash of movement were the only warnings either of them got before a familiar figure threw herself at McCree, the force of the tackle nearly sending them both to the ground.  

 

The Vault Hunter stayed upright, much to Hanzo’s surprised, and wheezed as he spoke. “Missed you too, ladybird.”

 

Fareeha buried her head further into McCree’s neck. Her arms wrapped around him in a vice grip of a hug, her shoulders shaking and her words muffled against the fabric of McCree’s clothes.

 

“Took you long enough, Jesse.”

 

\------

 

Hanzo had seen many cities over the years. Cities that were bigger on the inside than they were on the outside; cities with skyscrapers so tall they blocked out the sun, so artificial suns had to be brought in; he had once even seen a city spring up in the center of another city.  The last one had been one he had called home not too long ago.

 

Gibraltar, however, was none of those things.

 

It was the smallest city he had ever stepped foot into, as well as the strangest in terms of design. The layout was crowded, low-roofed buildings stacked on top one another and in odd places that made little sense to the archer. The streets themselves were narrow and littered with trash, piled up in the closed-off nooks and crannies of the chaotic city. True, he would still consider it nicer than most of the settlements he had seen since coming to Pandora, but Hanzo was coming to realize ‘nice’ was a relative term to those living on this planet.

 

 _Rule five,_ he noted. Perhaps he would write these rules down when he got the chance.

 

As they passed through the large archway that marked the main entrance to Gibraltar, Hanzo found himself drawn to the sky above as a faint shimmer caught his eye. He wondered if it had been a trick of the light until he saw it again: a honeycomb-like shape briefly flashing before flickering out once again.

 

“First time seeing a shield?”

 

Ahead of him, Fareeha and Jesse had just started up the stairs leading to the central plaza of the city. They had been talking amongst themselves for the better part of their walk from the bottom of the hill to the gates of the city itself, and so it caught the archer off guard when the woman suddenly directed a question towards him.

 

Realizing he hadn’t answered yet, Hanzo quickly shook his head. “I have seen a shield before. The size of this one, however, is quite impressive.”

 

He heard McCree gave a childish snicker at that, and Hanzo shot the man a weary look, though he cracked a wry grin of his own all the same.

 

The soldier, unfazed by their demeanor, continued on up the stairs, motioning for them to follow. “It spans the entire city. I doubt we could have rebuilt without, quite frankly. Between the bandits and Vishkar, we’ve had to make some changes to how we defend ourselves.”

 

A loud wailing siren blared from a speaker somewhere in the central plaza, and a voice came in overhead, “Look alive! Moonshot blitz incoming!”

 

“Ah, speak of the devil.” Fareeha mused and calmly reached out to the nearby guardrail. She gestured to the two rather panicked men beside her with an amused nod. “You’re going to want to hold on to something.”

 

McCree paled. “Wha--”

 

Not even a second later, there was a series of red-hot blasts that streaked down from the heavens and slammed with a thundering quake into an invisible force. The panels in the sky flickered brightly on impact. The ground shook, loose panels around them rattled and groaned, and Hanzo grabbed onto the guardrail, feeling it bend as McCree did the same with his left arm.

 

When the volley of moonshots ceased their assault on the transparent dome above, Hanzo let out a sigh of relief. The other bystanders in the plaza were already going back to what they had been doing before the blitz, friends talking and soldiers in uniform patrolling the open market with an easygoing stride.

 

“What the actual shit, Amari?” McCree clutched a hand to his chest, his eyes trained on the woman who had already started walking again. “What the hell was that all about?”

 

Fareeha turned and rested a hand on her hip. “Don’t act so surprised, Jesse: you know we’re on Vishkar’s bad side. If we want a fighting chance at taking them down, we have to defend ourselves accordingly.”

 

McCree looked as though he wanted to say something, but ultimately huffed and tugged down his hat. Hanzo cleared his throat and tilted his head up in question. “Excuse me for a moment, Miss…”.

 

“Ah, my bad.” The soldier turned away from the grumbling cowboy and held out her hand with a smile. “Lieutenant Fareeha Amari of the newly reinstated Overwatch. A pleasure to meet you.”

 

“Hanzo.” He shook her hand firmly. “The pleasure is mine, Lieutenant.”

 

“Shit, should’a introduced y’all myself. Some kinda friend I am, huh?” McCree blurted, saddling up beside the two of them and laughing mostly to himself. Placing a hand on his shoulder, the Vault Hunter gestured to Hanzo with a nod. “Hanzo’s been my travelin’ buddy for a little while now, been showin’ him all the wonders of Pandora.”

 

“Yes, the wonders of Pandora.” Hanzo groaned. “All of which have tried to kill us on our way here.”

 

Fareeha chuckled, and shot a look at McCree. “Off-planet?”

 

“Off-planet.”

 

The Siren chose to ignore them. “You and McCree have both mentioned an ‘Overwatch’. From him, I only learned that it fell.” He folded his arms under the serape and trained his eyes on Fareeha. “However, as your title suggests, that is no longer the case? Overwatch, whatever it is, has returned?”

 

“Indeed.” The woman nodded curtly, looking towards the sky with a stoney gaze. “Overwatch was the only thing the people of Pandora had to fight against the Talon company when they came to this planet in search of the first Vault. When the company left and Vishkar came into the picture, it only made sense for us to come back. To rebuild and to fight once again.”

 

“‘Come back’, huh?” McCree toyed with the lighter on his belt, his face unreadable. “You make it sound like we left of our own volition.”

 

Fareeha scowled, shooting a disgruntled look at the cowboy before returning back to Hanzo. “But yes, we fell. And now we’re back. It’s as simple as that.”

 

We. Us. The way they spoke, and McCree’s comparison of ‘visiting an open grave turned skyscraper’; it was like a puzzle was slowly falling into place and the picture was becoming more and more apparent to the archer. A man who was once part of something bigger than him, but no longer.

 

Even still, Hanzo knew there were pieces missing, questions that sat around restlessly in his mind that he wanted to ask, but couldn’t find the will to force them out.

 

“Which reminds me, Jesse,” Fareeha’s eyes seemed to brighten and her smile was back once again. “I think… there are a few others we should go see.” She nudged McCree with her shoulder. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

 

Hanzo watched McCree hesitantly look back and forth between the two of them, scratching at the scruff under his chin. “Well, I… I mean,” The man gnawed on his lip. “I dunno...”

 

The lieutenant flinched back. “Jesse, these people still think you’re dead. _I_ thought you were dead until twenty minutes ago when you showed up.” She swiveled around to face him now, her brow furrowed. “...Why else did you come here, then?”

 

It was McCree’s turn to visibly wince at her words, and Hanzo could see a war going on behind those troubled eyes of his. With every passing second of silence, the Siren watched as Fareeha’s face fell until she was all but staring at the ground.

 

Hanzo tugged at the frayed ends of the serape, and grunted as he turned to start walking across the plaza. “I’m going to get a drink.”

 

“Wha-- Hey, hey, hey, wait, Han!” McCree snapped out of his thoughts and half-jogged over to him, whispering as he came close. “Hanzo, what in the hell are you doin’?”

 

“Did you not hear me? I said I was getting a drink.”

 

He rolled his eyes. “That ain’t what I meant, smart-ass, an’ you know it. Why you bailin’ out all of a sudden?”

 

Hanzo cast a look past McCree at Fareeha, who still to be staring off and unaware of their side-conversation, before refocusing on the man before him. “You said you had friends in this city who could help us. I doubt they would trust an off-planet stranger coming up to them and asking about the Vaults.”

 

“Well, yeah, but--”

 

“Then it is settled. You will go talk with them while I wait at the bar.” The archer shifted the bow on his back with a huff. “I assume there is at least one in the city, of course.”

 

McCree grumbled something under his breath and crossed his arms across his chest. “An’ just what makes you so sure of that?”

 

Hanzo smirked and turned to start making his way around the central plaza. “What self-respecting rebellion wouldn’t have a place for soldiers to drink?”

 

“Hanzo--” He heard McCree give an exasperated groan but didn’t hear him following after him.  “...Fareeha, you know if  Em’s is still up an’ runnin’?”

 

“Huh?” Fareeha looked up. “Oh… Yes, she’s still here. Why?”

 

“Alright. Alright, fine.” The Vault Hunter tipped his hat back and joined back up with the lieutenant. “I’ll meet you at Em’s in a little while, angel. Shouldn’t be too far from here. I won’t be long.”

 

He glanced back to the Vault Hunter and gave him a quick nod and wave before making his way through the plaza and headed down the first branching street he could find.

 

\-----

 

“He... doesn’t actually know where the bar is, does he?” Fareeha finally said after they watched him disappear around the corner.

 

“Nope.” McCree thumbed his pocket for a cigar and stuck it in his mouth. As he lit it up and took a long huff off his cigar, he gestured vaguely in the direction the archer had wandered off into. Definitely not the way to Em’s, if he remembered correctly. “Ain’t gonna tell him either, since he was an ass about it.”

 

“Says the ass himself.” He blew out a bit of smoke in her direction instead of answering, and she swatted his arm, coughing. “Glad to know you’re still part exhaust-pipe.”

 

McCree clipped his lighter back onto his belt. “Yeah, I reckon Angie won’t be too happy to hear that.” He paused. “She’s still here, right?”

 

Amari nodded. “She is, as are a few others. Reinhardt, Torbjörn, Winston… a good part of the old team is still here.”

 

“That so?” Suddenly the smoke from the cigar no longer warmed him up, but instead weighed down his lungs like lead. He didn’t dare ask about the other part of the team, the ones who didn’t make it, and the last thing Fareeha needed was to pick at more old wounds. Shaking himself free from his thoughts, he held out his arm to her with a cheesy grin. “Well, lead the way, Lieutenant Amari.”

 

“Please never call me that again.”

 

“Aw, now you just guaranteed I will exclusively call you that, Lieutenant Amari.”

 

Fareeha let out a groan of annoyance. “I’ve created a monster.”

 

Despite her griping and his teasing, they navigated through the surprisingly familiar passageways and corridors of Gibraltar with practiced ease. There were bits of the past blending with newer elements that looked like more recent additions to the city, but it still ultimately felt as though he had never left.

 

The biggest difference he noted on their way to HQ was when they passed by a familiar corner of the marketplace. Where once an old grouchy lady had stood on the corner, shouting at passing pedestrians to hurry up and buy her newspapers, there was now a decent-sized stand with speakers afixed to either side of the shack. Music pumped in a pounding beat that McCree felt all the way down to his toes, and a young man with thick dreadlocks was bobbing his head to the rhythm behind the counter.

 

Noticing the two walk by, the man smiled brightly and waved at Fareeha. “Hey-hey, _tenente!_ How’s it hanging? Hey, you and your friend got time to listen to my remix today? Just got some new material from Vish propaganda!”  

 

She laughed and kept walking, but slowed down to shout out, “Sorry, Lúcio, we’ve got some business to attend to right now, but I promise you I will stop by sometime later today, though. Love your music, keep up the good work!”

 

Lúcio flashed a thumbs up. “Aight then, I’ll hold you to that, Ree! Catch you two later, you know where to find me!”

 

Even as they approached the alley leading to HQ, McCree could still hear the bass of the techno music thumping through his core. It wasn’t his usual cup of tea as far as music went, but he couldn’t deny it bolstered his spirit enough to block out the nervous pounding of his heart.

 

Overwatch HQ, as he remembered it, spanned nearly an entire block and housed just about everyone who was part of the resistance at the time. Coming up to the building now, however, he could see that much of it was gone, parts of it swallowed up by the surrounding units and buildings, leaving only what looked to be a condo-sized sliver left of the base.

 

Yet even still, McCree had to laugh as he saw that obnoxious neon ‘ARCHIVE’ sign over the door frame buzzing loudly as the last of its lights flickered, a relic from a time even before the first Overwatch. The blue banner that stretched across the upper balcony was new, but the logo and slogan of Overwatch hadn’t changed.

 

_Pandora needs heroes! Join Overwatch today!_

 

“Well. Here we are.” Fareeha grinned, though there was an anxious energy to her as well. She nodded towards the door, the same door with the same rust and dents as he last remembered it. “Want to do the honors?”

 

“Might as well.” Flicking the remains of his cigar onto the ground, McCree sighed. He didn’t want to, not yet anyways, and yet he saw himself push open the creaky door before his mind could comprehend his actions.

 

The main floor of the base was frightfully small, not even a quarter of the size of what it used to be, and crammed with cots, lockers, washers, and a long L-shaped desk that took up most of the bottom right corner of the room. Tools of various trades were haphazardly scattered every which way he looked, screwdrivers and power drills mixing with hammers and nails. And sitting down in a chair that was far too small for a man of his stature was a greying older man.

 

“Ah, Fareeha!” Even with his large back to the door, there was no mistaking the thunderous boom that was undeniably Reinhardt Wilhelm. “I was worried when Winston said you suddenly left your--”

 

As he turned around to greet the lieutenant (and by extension, the thought-to-be-dead gunslinger), Reinhardt’s eyes widened and he dropped the large piece of metal he had in his hands on the floor. It landed with an ear-wincing clang, but the man paid it no mind as he stood up fast enough to flip over his chair.

 

“...Post.”

 

Fareeha laughed as she wrapped an arm around McCree’s shoulders. “Surprise.”

 

That had been the magic word to break Reinhardt’s spell of silence. In an instant, McCree watched as Reinhardt all but vaulted over the desk itself. Before he knew it, he had been pulled into a bone-crushing hug by the boisterous giant, who hollered and guffawed loud enough to be heard across the city. The gunslinger coughed and wheezed, unable to even move his arms to return the hug.

 

“Good to... see you too, big guy.” He gasped out finally with what little breath was still left in his lungs.

 

“Jesse McCree, I knew it! I _knew_ it!” Reinhardt pulled back  and pat McCree’s back forcefully, nearly toppling the still-winded Vault Hunter to the ground with one blow. He waggled a finger at no one in particular, grinning his great big grin as he spoke. “They all thought you were dead but _I_ knew you weren’t, you sly dog, you!”

 

Fareeha nudged Reinhardt’s hand down with an eyeroll. “Go easy on him now, or they’ll be right anyways. And you know how Torbjörn gets when he’s right.”

 

“Let’s face it, that man’s cranky an’ full of it even when he ain’t right.” McCree chuckled. “It’s good to know y’all haven’t changed a bit.”

 

“I would say the same of you,” The man said, nodding to the gunslinger’s left, his smile faltering ever so slightly. “But, uh…”

 

“Wait, what?” The lieutenant frowned and followed his gesture. Eyes widened, she swiftly raced around to his other side and held up his metal arm to inspect. “Wha-- How did I miss-- Jesse McCree, what the hell happened to you out there?!”

 

The Vault Hunter dropped his gaze, casting it towards the desk and tools Reinhardt had been working on instead. She had _that_ look on her face, the one that he was most afraid of. The one of sheer and utter disbelief combined with anger and concern, and he knew if he looked her in the eyes at that moment, he would somehow end up staying in Gibraltar.

 

“What’s with all the commotion down here? Lieutenant, is that you?”

 

Fareeha quickly dropped his arm, though she remained close to his side, and everyone looked towards the voice coming from the top of the stairs in the back.

 

Commander Jack Morrison was a ghost of his former self. He looked old and worn, more so than McCree remembered, and his scarred complexion spoke of the lifestyle he’d lived. Yet his pale blue eyes still scanned and pierced through the room, all the way through to his core as if he was the same Jack Morrison from all those years ago.

 

Those eyes landed on him, and Jack stared for an unnervingly long time. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand at attention, and finally, the man gave a gravelly address.

 

“McCree.”

 

His brow furrowed. “Morrison.”

 

“We thought you were dead.” The soldier straightened his back, look down his nose at the Vault Hunter. “Why didn’t you tell anyone? If you’ve been alive this long, you should have contacted us sooner.”

 

McCree couldn’t help but scoff. “That’s kinda funny, considerin’ last I heard, the great Jack Morrison died when Talon razed the goddamn city. An’ I sure as hell didn’t hear anythin’ ‘bout you risin’ from the grave, I’ll tell you what.”

 

“Well, you know what they say, kid,” Jack’s expression was stoney as he spoke. “Old soldiers are hard to kill.”

 

McCree balled his fists by his side, and took a heated step towards Jack. “So Amari gets the ‘lieutenant’ treatment, an’ I’m still ‘kid’ to you, huh? Guess some things never change, do they?”

 

“No, they don’t,” The man retorted as he reached the bottom of the stairs, “Considering your attitude has not changed in the however-many years you’ve been apparently _not_ dead.”

 

Another step closer, enough to where he could grab at his jacket lapels if he so wished. “Listen, old man--”

 

“Gentlemen, please,” Reinhardt cleared his throat nervously and stood between the two of them. “I think we all have had a long day, and--”

 

“At ease, soldier.” Jack held up his hand, not breaking eye contact with the Vault Hunter all the while. “I’m curious to hear what _former_ Private McCree has to say about all this.”

 

“Oh, no you don’t,” Fareeha frowned and marched up to Jack with a scowl, swatting his hand down in one swipe. “You’re not the commander this time around, remember? You don’t get to ‘at ease’ him, Jack; that’s not your call to make anymore.”

 

The man glowered at her, and McCree stifled a laugh at his expense. In a flash, Fareeha whipped her head around, and pointed at him in turn.

 

“ _Both_ of you need to cut this shit out and get over yourselves, or so help me, I will treat you exactly as the children you are being right now, and put you in time-out!”

 

McCree felt his face grow hot at her words, and he tipped his hat down. Around him, the rest of the room was dead silent, her words still ringing in their minds and hanging high in the tense air.

 

He heard Reinhardt finally pick up the piece of metal he had dropped on the floor earlier and clunk it down onto the desk beside him. _Poor guy_ , he thought; for as loveable and sociable as the man was, McCree had never known him to be particularly good in these sorts of situations. Sparing a glance upward, he saw the usually jovial smile turned to something far more dour, and the gunslinger felt his gut sink to his boots.

 

Amari huffed and ran a hand through her hair with an exhausted sigh. “As far as I’m concerned, the past is the past, and right now, we can’t be wasting our energy fighting amongst ourselves like this.”

 

She looked back and forth between her brother-in-arms, and the former commander with a fierceness McCree had not seen in years. “We are in this together. We need to be. Otherwise Vishkar will win, they will take everything from us, and we will only have ourselves to blame.”

 

With an encouraging nod from Fareeha, McCree sighed and stood at attention. “...You’re right. M’sorry. Y’all clearly got a lot goin’ on, an’ I shouldn’t have… I… yeah.”

 

“I, ahem,” Jack scratched at the stubble on his face, not quite meeting the gunslinger’s gaze just yet. “She’s… She’s right. We can’t afford to fight like this. Not with Vishkar at our backs. Not when we’re spread thin enough as is.”

 

The lieutenant quirked a brow up, making a rolling motion with her hand. “...And?”

 

“...And I’m sorry, too.”

 

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Reinhardt crack a smile and heard him chuckle as he returned to his work. “Ana would approve.”

 

“Uh, so, speaking of Vishkar,” McCree said a bit too suddenly. They all turned to him, curiosity piqued. He swallowed a lump in his throat and did his best to force his thoughts forward. _Better to come clean sooner than later_ , he mused. “They’re, eh... actually why I came to Gibraltar, more or less.”

 

“Ah, joining up the fight once more, my friend?” Reinhardt called out. “Our new commander is out right now, but I am sure he’d be more than happy to welcome you back--”

 

“Sorry, but not quite, big guy. See, the thing is, me an’ a buddy I made out in the Highlands, we came all the way here to get y’all’s help with somethin’.” He shook his head, shifting the bag on his back to his side. He bit his cheek as he pondered over his words. “Somethin’ that’s… bigger than either of us.”

 

Jack crossed his arms across his chest. “What do you mean? What does this have to do with Vishkar?”

 

“I… well, it’s...” McCree chuckled weakly. “It might just be easier to show y’all rather than try to explain.” With great trepidation, he reached down into the bag and pulled out the sliver of the Vault Key, holding up for the room to see.

 

Reinhardt gasped sharply and dropped his tools, the sound of clattering metal once again piercing through the otherwise quiet room; Fareeha’s eyes went comically wide, and she all but jumped back from him; and Jack stared at McCree as though he was holding a bomb rather than ancient alien tech, which, in all fairness, was an appropriate response.

 

As the faint purplish glow from the stone construct filled the space between the three of them, the Vault Hunter pressed his lips into a thin line. “So, yeah. Yeah, this is a thing now.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dum-da-daaaah!! 
> 
> things are gonna be getting a bit more hectic for me in the upcoming months or so, and i know i've been really inconsistent, so thank you all so much for sticking with me ;u;
> 
> as usual, you can find me over [here](http://aerihead.tumblr.com/) and the amazing cicada over [here](http://thetiniestcicada.tumblr.com/) on tumblr!!


	13. When the Job is Done

 

Hanzo had no idea where the bar was.

 

He blamed his issue on the smell of the entire city. In his experience, the best way to find a bar, even a crappy hole-in-the-wall dive, was by following the unmistakable odor of sweaty patrons who have either too much time or too many problems, and cruddy drinks. And the best way to do  _ that  _ was to find the drunkest person he could and see which way they came from.

 

But when every other person he bumped into on the streets looked and smelled as though they were already three sheets to the wind, he was beginning to think his usual methods were not going to work here. 

 

There was also the fact that Gibraltar itself reeked of rust and old garbage, and the two came together in a strangely specific way that stunk exactly like old beer.

 

The archer felt a stray tin can clatter against his foot as he made another right down an all-too-familiar street at this point, the one just off of the main thoroughfare that lead him back towards the main entrance. It was infuriating how every way he turned, he somehow ended up back at the giant gate. At this point, Hanzo had no choice but to do the unthinkable -- he was going to have to swallow his pride, and go ask for directions. 

 

He saw the garage that the three of them had passed by on their way into the city. The large billboard above the entrance said, “ _ Tracer’s _ ” in blocky, yet bright lettering that oozed enthusiasm, and pictured a cheerful-looking woman with goggles and spiky hair who was saluting no one in particular. The tagline beneath her read, “ _ Cavalry’s Here!” _ in a similar font.

 

_ The unthinkable indeed,  _ he mused begrudgingly as he walked into the repair shop through the raised tin door.

 

Inside, the garage was spacious but messy. It seemed whoever ran this place used anything they could get their hands on to store all their clutter: metal shelving, old cars and toolboxes, even broken washing machines were stuffed with junk of all kind. In many ways, it reminded him of the junker’s hideout at the ravine; though here, it was more of an organized chaos than pure and utter disarray.

 

Towards the back of the room, there was a large dune buggy in desperate need of repairs set up on four cinder blocks, and a pair of sneakers sticking out underneath. He heard a mix of grumbled curses that didn’t quite match the upbeat voice that muttered out from the bottom of the hulking vehicle. 

 

“Come on-- Just, ugh, turn already--!”

 

Hanzo cleared his throat, and cautiously approached the buggy. “Hello?”

 

“Ah!” The voice yelped out in surprise, and some kind of metal tool clattered loudly to the floor shortly thereafter. “Ow, shit! I’ll be up in a tick!”

 

There was more scrambling as sneakers scuffed against the floor with a squeak, and Hanzo watched as the woman from the billboard rolled herself out from underneath the buggy, grease and dirt smudged all cross her clothes and freckled face. She bounced to her feet as if on a trampoline rather than concrete, and wiped her gloves against a cloth on her pants quickly before turning to Hanzo with a sunny grin.

 

“Sorry ‘bout that, love! Didn’t even hear you come in, you’re so quiet!”

 

He bowed his head slightly. “My apologies. I didn’t mean to,” His eyes darted over her shoulder to the heap on cinder blocks behind her briefly. “...interrupt your work.”

 

“Ah, no need to worry! She ain’t going anywhere. Well, anytime soon, that is.” She waved her hand dismissively. “Anyway, what can I do for you?”

 

“Yes, well, I,” The Siren gritted his teeth subtly. “I am… in need of directions. I am unfamiliar with this area and was hoping you could be of assistance.”

 

“New in town? Well, lucky for you, you came to the right place!” The woman giggled, her hands resting comfortably on her hips in a confident pose. “I figured you were new, seeing as I know just about everyone in this city! Ree’s got her eyes in the sky, but she forgets this is ol’ Lena’s stomping grounds, too!”

 

Hanzo tilted his head in question. “Ree? As in, Fareeha, the lieutenant of Overwatch?”

 

Her smile brightened further. “Oh, you met her?”

 

“Yes, briefly.” For a stranger, the young mechanic’s grin was awfully infectious. Hanzo found himself fighting not to mimic her cheery expression. “She had business to attend to with a companion of mine, and had to leave with him before I could ask for directions.”

 

“Ah, that’s the Amari way for you. ‘Duty calls’, and all that.” For just a moment, the woman’s smile looked as though it fell just a bit before she recovered in the blink of an eye, and quickly offered out her hand as if to change the subject. “In any case, I’m Lena Oxton, head mechanic here at Tracer’s!”

 

He tried not to show his shock at her ability to bounce between emotions, and carefully shook the offered hand. “Hanzo.”

 

“Well, Hanzo, welcome to Gibraltar!” Lena didn’t seem fazed by his loose grip in the slightest. “Now, where you lookin’ to go? The Watch Base, Lindholm Ammo and Artillery…?”

 

Taking back his hand, Hanzo smoothed down the front of the borrowed serape. “A place to drink, actually. I was given the name ‘Em’s’, but...”

 

“Oh!” Lena’s eyes lit up at the name and she gasped. “Yes, yes, Em’s, ‘course! It’s a great place; you’re gonna love it! Best in town, really!” 

 

He jumped a bit at her outburst. “Is that so?”

 

Realizing her own excitement, Lena cleared her throat nervously, scratching the back of her neck with a more subdued chuckle, though still full of that energetic bubbliness. “Uh, well... technically, it’s the _ only  _ one in town, but trust me: Em’s Pub is  _ the  _ place to go! Ask anyone, they’ll vouch for me!”

 

“Oh?” An eyebrow raised along with his question.

 

“Course!” At that, the mechanic’s demeanor shifted once again, her fingers twirling into a lock of hair by her right ear, and her face became flush with a rosy hue. “Em is… She’s real lovely. Down to earth, really sweet. Even if you aren’t the sort to get pissed in the middle of the day, I bet there isn’t a single person in the city who doesn’t enjoy her company!”

 

A small tug of a grin pulled on the corners of his lips.  _ Ah, I see.  _ “Very well then. Please, lead the way.”

 

Motioning for him to follow, the two made their way up the metal stairs and towards the door to the back. With a bit of effort and help from Hanzo himself, Lena wrenched the door open to reveal the main street leading to the plaza.

 

“Alright, so Em’s, yeah? You’re going head-on to the center of town for the most part, and when you near the station, you’re going to make a right and keep going until you see the big neon sign for Emily’s. Can’t miss it!”

 

_ Head to the plaza, make a right at the station, look for Emily’s sign.  _ It seemed simple enough, and he had passed by the old station enough times to know where that was in relation to the plaza, at least. With a plan in mind, Hanzo nodded and turned to Lena. “Miss Oxton, thank you for--”

 

She waved her hand quickly. “Ah, no need for that sort of thing! You can just stick with Lena, or Tracer, even. Most everyone does, anyway!”

 

Hanzo chuckled. “Thank you for all your help, Lena.”

 

“My pleasure, love!” Lena gestured back to the rest of the garage. “I’ve got to get back to work, but if you ever need anything else, you can always find me here!” She made as to step away and let him be off, but stopped in thought for a moment. Quick as a whip, she suddenly spun around back to Hanzo, worrying her lip between her teeth. “Actually, since you’re headed there already, you mind, um... passing along a message for me? To Emily?”

 

He paused in the doorway, turning back to her carefully. “A message?” 

 

Lena sighed, patting the ECHO device secured against her hip. “You probably don’t know this, being new to town and all, but… Gibraltar’s ECHOnet lines have been on the blink for a while now. Used to be just the long-range stuff, but lately we’ve had issues with short-range lines as well.”

 

Hanzo’s eyebrows raised slightly in shock, and he folded his arms across his chest. “Is that not a danger to a rebellion like Overwatch? They would need to be able to communicate with those in the field, after all.”

 

She flinched, but nodded glumly. “Yeah, it is. I know Winston and the others are doing their best, and I’m all for the cause, really, I am! But with the lines down, no one’s been able to get in contact with anyone to restock anything, and we’ve made due for a while now, but…” 

 

Her thoughts trailed off, and Lena’s face fell further. It was odd: for as much as the mechanic had presented herself with an ever-present smile and skip in her step, Hanzo could now see the faintest hint of desperation on her face, despite her youth. In a way, it reminded him of the lieutenant’s expression at the gate, one hardened by harsh conditions and formed to keep those around her from worrying.

 

He wondered how long such a strong front could last in these circumstances.

 

Hanzo dropped his crossed arms and sighed through his nose. “Very well. What would you want me to pass on to this Emily?”

 

“Oh, right, right. Uh…” That managed to shake Lena from her thoughts, though she still shuffled in place with a nervousness that didn’t suit her. Not entirely, at least. “Can you let Em know I won’t be able to come by ‘til tomorrow? Or… maybe sometime this week?”

 

He frowned. “Which is it? Tomorrow or later this week?”

 

“Both? Neither?” She groaned and ran a hand through her mess of brown hair. “Winston -- he’s the current commander of Overwatch -- he wants me to start helping him with something at HQ starting today, but he hasn’t sent word of what it is or how long he thinks it’ll take.”

 

“I see.” Hanzo huffed, but nevertheless nodded towards the young woman. “I will let Emily know you cannot stop today.”

 

The mechanic gave a weak smile, the hand in her hair sliding down to rub the base of her neck. “Thank you so much. Sorry for making you the bearer of bad news here, but I’ve got to zip over to the big guy pretty soon, actually.” As she inched away towards the work bench, she craned her neck over her shoulder back at Hanzo with a quizzical look. “You’re still good on how to get there, yeah?”

 

Hanzo tried not to roll his eyes too hard. “Yes, I know the way. I have not forgotten in the short time we have been talking.”

 

Lena let out a short laugh and held up her hands in mock-defense. “Just wanted to double-check!” In one fluid motion, the woman spun around on her heels yet again, brought two fingers up to her brow and saluted him exactly the same as she appeared on the billboard outside. “Well, I’ll let you be on your way then, Hanzo. Don’t be a stranger now, and don’t forget: keep calm and Tracer on!”

 

The Siren left the garage with a parting wave to the mechanic, and headed towards the main thoroughfare once more, but with a clear mind and clearer directions. Sure enough, the bar was only a stone’s throw away from the center of the city, and he almost wanted to hit himself at how close he had been so many times before. 

 

Hanzo heard the pub before he saw it, the thumping beat of music that was just a tad bit too loud rumbling in his chest. The building didn’t look like much on the outside, but he knew better at this point than to judge anything on Pandora by first appearances. 

 

Rather than the usual concrete floors Hanzo had seen in several constructions up until this point, the pub floors were dark wooden planks, stained heavily with spilled beer and whatever else they had on tap. Worn and empty, but comfortable-looking booths seemed to line the makeshift runway to the bar itself, where a semi-stocked wall of booze awaited. Behind the counter was a red-headed woman boredly curling a long strand of hair around her finger while she rested her face in her other hand.

 

Hanzo took a seat at the bar, rested his things down by his knees, and caught the red-headed bartender’s attention with a small wave. “I am meeting a friend here for drinks. He is not here yet, but I hope you will let me hold the seat next to me for when he does arrive.”

 

The woman stared at him, and nodded. “Sure thing, love. Can I get you anything in the meantime?”

 

“I will have,” He thought for a moment. “Something with a bit of a bite, if you don’t mind.”

 

\-----

 

Jesse fidgeted under everyone’s scrutinizing gazes, shifting from one foot to another. Part of him wanted to say something, to break whatever tense silence had filled the already-cramped room and made it feel that much smaller, but what would he say?

 

What  _ could _ he say? 

 

‘Sorry for droppin’ in on y’all while y’all rage a war with the biggest threat Pandora’s seen since Talon first dropped anchor. Hope you don’t mind this giant-ass bullseye I’ve brought you!’

 

_ Yeah, that’ll go over well _ , he thought.

 

Reinhardt was a lost cause. His mouth was agape, and his eyes were darting back and forth between the Vault Key and the one holding it. Out of everyone in the room, he seemed the most uncertain and confused at everything that was happening. On the other hand, the lieutenant and former commander’s focus was definitely on the key, and both had a controlled look of shock on their face.

 

Jesse could feel the stone fragment’s odd pulsing through the hand holding up the key. Before, he thought of it like a heartbeat, but now he saw that the rhythm was off in a way that made him uneasy. It would glow for two seconds, then stop, then again for five, stop, one second, stop; it was impossible for him to measure out the pattern.

 

Jesse began to lower his arm just as Jack spoke up.

 

“You do realize this gives us more questions than answers, right?” Those unnerving blue eyes were drilling into the gunslinger, and he spoke with a restrained tone. 

 

Stuffing the fragment back into his bag, Jesse shrugged as nonchalantly as one could after such a reveal. “Figured as much. Can’t guarantee you’ll get everythin’ you ask for, though.”

 

Jack narrowed his eyes at him attentively. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

 

“Means what it means, Morrison. I only know what I know ‘bout this damn thing, an’ spoiler alert: it ain’t much.” Jesse tipped his hat down and reached for his cigars. He was long overdue for a smoke.

 

The lieutenant this time stepped forward, her arms crossed nervously across her chest. “What about that man who came here with you? Hanzo, right? Does he know anything about the Key, Vishkar, or something?”

 

“Doubt it,” Jesse shook his head and lit the end of his cigar. “Considerin’ he’s from off-planet an’ all.”

 

“Off-planet doesn’t mean he doesn’t know anything--” 

 

“He shot a  _ tadpole thresher _ , ladybird.”

 

She pursed her lips. “Okay, so he doesn’t know the local wildlife just yet. Still, I think--”

 

“Lieutenant, with all due respect,” Jack intervened, “I think keeping this matter within Overwatch would be in all of our best interests. We don’t know anything about the key or the Vaults, and we especially don’t know anything about this new friend of McCree’s. If this stranger turns out to be working with Vishkar, it’s going to be Watchpoint all over again.”

 

Fareeha flinched sharply at that, and cast her gaze to the bench towards nothing in particular. Reinhardt, having recovered enough to react at this point, put a hand on her shoulder with a weary expression on his brow as he looked across to Jack. “We all know... what is at stake, Jack.”

 

The man in question nodded, and turned towards Jesse sternly. “I am happy you are back, McCree, believe me, I am. But you’ve also been gone for a very long time. And, after years of no contact from you, you’ve suddenly shown up at our doorstep, and with an off-planet stranger tagging along? You have to admit that sounds a bit suspicious.” 

 

“Fair enough.” Jesse exhaled after a long drag, the smoke mingling with the dust in the air around the ceiling lights. “Gotta say, though: my buddy Hanzo an’ I have done a pretty good job keepin’ each other’s asses alive out there, an’, well,” He chuckled as he tapped some ash off the end of his cigar, “The fact he hasn’t tried to shoot me an’ take the Key for himself already has to count for somethin’, right?”

 

Jack waved away a bit of smoke that coiled in his face. “Well, ‘hasn’t’ does not mean he won’t. We have to be prepared for the worst case scenario, should it present itself.”

 

“An’ just what makes you so sure he isn’t trustworthy?”

 

“What makes you so certain that he  _ is _ ?”

 

Jesse grunted under his breath with a grimace, but found he had no retort for that one, witty or otherwise. As much as he hated that overly-cautious attitude of the former commander, he had to admit, quietly and to himself, that Jack had a point. He had known Hanzo for only a short while now, and most of that time was spent running from whatever wanted to kill them and bickering like children. By all accounts, he had no real reason to trust him.

 

_ But damn if good company ain’t a hard thing to come by these days. _

 

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Reinhardt shoot him a quick glance before clearing his throat. “Perhaps we can meet this friend of Jesse’s. You know, have him stop by, get to know him, and decide if he is someone we can trust or not.”

 

“We don’t have time to sit down for a friendly chat with him, Reinhardt.” Jack growled, pinching his brow. “What we need is intel, solid proof. We need to know that he is not going to screw us over.”

 

Suddenly, Fareeha’s eyes jumped from the floor back to the conversation at hand, and she began to briskly make her way across the room to the bulletin board behind the workbench, where dozens of papers were tacked on. “We’ll give him a test, then.”

 

Everyone followed her movements towards the papers, and Jack raised one brow at her, though said nothing.

 

Meanwhile, the lieutenant raked over the numerous flyers and postings with a critical eye. “We have him do something for us, and then we can see for ourselves if he is willing to align himself with our goals.” She threw a knowing glance over her shoulder at Jack. “Plus, we could use the help. God knows we have enough to do around here on our own.”

 

Jesse gave a breathy laugh at the familiar, but not too familiar scene before him.  _ Like mother, like daughter. _

 

Jack, with a semi-defeated sigh, joined Fareeha at the posting board, and frowned. “What did you have in mind then, Lieutenant? We can’t just send him out on a grocery run and expect him to reveal his true colors.”

 

“Oh, don’t you worry,” Her lips curled into a small grin, “I have just the thing.”

 

\-----

 

“Restoring the ECHO lines?”

 

Beside him, Jesse finished the last bit of of his liquor in his glass in one final swig, and nodded. “Yup. Ladybird wants us to go and figure out what’s been going on with the ECHOnet. We find out what’s causing all the ruckus, deal with it if we can, an’ mosey on back once we’re finished.” 

 

“That sounds deceptively simple.” Hanzo huffed. 

 

Jesse shrugged. “Morrison originally wanted to send you solo, if that makes you feel better. I asked him if he would able to do that sort of mission all by himself, an’ that seemed to shut him up right quick.” He flashed a wicked grin at him. “Reeha said she’d prefer someone to go with you anyways, just to be sure you don’t split.”

 

The Siren slowly ran his finger along the edge of his own glass. “And I suppose mention of my unfamiliarity with my surroundings did nothing to convince them one way or another.”

 

“That’s Pandoran hospitality for you in a nutshell. Speakin’ of which,” Jesse smirked as he waved over Emily with a grin. “Hey, Red, how’s about another round for me an’ my buddy over here?”

 

“Ignore him.” Hanzo shook his head when she turned around to face them. “I have had my fill.”

 

Emily looked at them in confusion for a moment, but nodded along. When she turned back to refill his drink, the gunslinger poked him lightly in the side with an elbow. “Quittin’ now, are you? Thought you said we’d drink up when we got here.”

 

“I said we’d drink when the job was done,” He reiterated, “And from what you just told me, it seems we have a new job on our hands now.” Though, he highly doubted such a detail would persuade the Vault Hunter from a drink either way.

 

“Details, details.” Jesse said lazily, as if reading his mind. “An’ to be fair, we haven’t agreed to nothin’ just yet. I told the lieutenant that I’d run this by you first an’ see what’cha think of it all before we went any further.”

 

Hanzo idly played with a stray end of the oversized cloak still across his shoulders. Perhaps he would look into repairing his own jacket while in the city. It would be a hassle to constantly borrow Jesse’s clothes just to walk around the city, regardless of how exceptionally warm and comfortable the raggedy thing was. 

 

“What are your thoughts on all this?”

 

Jesse thought quietly for a minute, his hands clasped together on the counter as he spoke. “Main ECHOnet server for Three Horns lies just beyond the Marrowfield to the south. It ain’t exactly a short walk, but it’s still in the area. I reckon, since we trashed our ride on the way here, we could stop by Tracer’s an’ she’ll hook us up with somethin’.”

 

At the mention of Lena, Hanzo sat forward. “I actually spoke with Ms. Oxton earlier, and she mentioned the lines have been having trouble with the ECHOnet for quite some time now.” His brow furrowed. “If it is indeed so close to Gibraltar, why hasn’t anyone resolved the connection issues?”

 

Jesse laughed dryly. “That’s ‘cause Marrowfield’s bullymong territory. Damn place is like one giant den at this point, an’ they don’t take too kindly to folks just passin’ through.”

 

Bullymongs. Hanzo recalled Jesse telling him of them before at the campfire. ‘Ape-like creatures with four arms, too many for its own good’, as the eloquent Vault Hunter had put it. He told him of how even the youngest were still a threat if one wasn’t careful. 

 

Of course, Jesse then had gone on to say the same about  _ literally _ every other beast he mentioned that night, so Hanzo had to wonder how much was true and how much was hyperbole in the end.

 

“Now that I think ‘bout it,” The gunslinger chuckled as he took up his now-full drink, “I wouldn’t be surprised if bullymongs are the root of our problem.”

 

Hanzo tilted his head towards Jesse. “How so?”

 

“Well, server tower ain’t that far from the Marrowfield itself, right? Let’s say a couple of ‘em decided to expand into the server, an’ lo an’ behold, they make a mess of the place tryin’ to turn it into a den.” Jesse swirled the glass in his hand, ice clinking around with the little bit of liquid still inside. “Bullymongs are tough, but luckily for us, they ain’t like threshers. We stock up while we’re here, load up on what we need? They won’t be much of a problem.”

 

“Hm.” The task certainly sounded easy enough when Jesse put it that way, and it would certainly help to have Overwatch as an ally in their hunt for the Vault. He wasn’t exactly especially ecstatic about getting to see what fresh hell awaited him in a place known as the Marrowfields, but chances are if Jesse didn’t think it was an issue, it probably wasn’t.

 

_ Probably. _

 

“Very well, then.”

 

With deft fingers and one swift, fluid motion, the Siren reached across Jesse and slipped the half-full glass from his grasp. Hanzo barely registered the other’s short-lived protest before he tipped his head back and downed the rest of the drink, feeling the liquor burn deliciously all the way down his throat. 

 

Sliding the emptied glass back towards Emily when he was done, Hanzo smirked and stood to his feet while Jesse continued to stare incredulously up at him. “Let us be going, then. We have work to do.”

 

The Vault Hunter blinked once, twice, and then, after a moment or two, cracked a cheesy grin. “Just for that, you owe me a round when we’re done with all this.”

 

Hanzo grabbed his bow from under the counter, and slung it back over his shoulders with a laugh. “We have a deal.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so job's been kicking my butt and fam's in the process of moving so my schedule's been absolutely fucked about three ways to Sunday, but how 'bout them boys, am I right??
> 
> as usual, you can find me over [here](http://aerihead.tumblr.com/) and the amazing cicada over [here](http://thetiniestcicada.tumblr.com/) on tumblr!!


	14. Good 'Mong Hunting

 

The sleek doors opened with soft  _ whoosh,  _ and the Man in the Nice Suit stepped through into the large, empty circular room. It was dark,  _ horribly so _ , in his opinion, but slowly, the servers lining the walls turned on, one by one, until the room was filled with light.

 

“Good morning, Symmetra!” He called out in a sing-song voice as a large screen lowered down from the ceiling to greet him. The screen blinked on and off a few times, the monitor still booting up, but nevertheless flashed the Vishkar logo, and a solid blue line warbled as the synthetic voice filled the air.

 

_ “How may I be of assistance today, sir?” _

 

The Man in the Nice Suit barked out a laugh. “What, no ‘good morning’ for me? You wound me, my dear!”

 

_ “My apologies, sir. Good morning to you, too.”  _

 

“There we go! See, that wasn’t so hard.” He strode across the room towards one of the central consoles, crossing his arms behind his back. “Pleasantries, they’ll take you far in life! A little bit of politeness never hurt anyone, after all.”

 

A soft whirring noise indicated to him that the monitor had risen back into the ceiling, and the screen on the console before him lit up with the same blue line.  _ “Noted for future references, sir. How may I be of assistance today?” _

 

“Good to see you are as eager as ever, my dear.” He chuckled once, then frowned as he pulled up a large holo-map of Pandora, the planet spinning slowly in place above the console. “What’s the status on the hypertrain bandits?”

 

A series of yellow dots appeared across the surface of the planet, as well as a few files with pictures of the surface below. Some pictures were well-shot landscapes, ones he’d almost consider pretty, were it not for the fact that the planet itself was a flaming bag of feces on the doorstep of the universe. But for the most part, the photos were of people, silhouettes blurred by motion and action, and it was infuriatingly hard to make out any details.

 

He decided he was going to personally fire and/or shoot whoever was in charge of cameras.

 

A series of photos were brought forward, hovering over the area he had come to know as ‘The Tundra Express’. They were several shots of the same scene, and together they stitched the story of a bandit duo robbing a hypertrain. One was scraggly and thin in a way that made The Man uncomfortable, while the other was rotund and wielding the biggest shotgun he had ever seen.

 

_ “The bandits from the Dust known as Junkrat and Roadhog have not be apprehended as of yet, assuming they survived the initial detonation of the case. I have reason to believe they are still alive, as I have received several reports of two men baring a strong resemblance to the bandits heading in the direction of Lynchwood.”  _

 

The voice paused as photos were flipped through until a decent photo of the bandits’ faces was found. 

 

_ “I have already sent word to the sheriff of Lynchwood, as well as issued an official notice to any interested party, that any information on the whereabouts of the two will be rewarded by the Vishkar Corporation, and that a twenty-five million dollar bounty for the capture of the bandits is now active.” _

 

“Good. Oh, and just be sure to clarify that we want them  _ alive _ . I don’t want some backwater hick getting their hands on these two idiots and dealing out their own version of justice before us.” The Man nodded. “What about the other search? Any luck?”

 

The photos of the bandits collapsed back into the map, and the yellow dots disappeared, replaced now with radar circles of varying sizes that pinged in and out slowly. The world map turned slowly until The Man was staring at the Highlands, where a red dot flashed not too far from where Utopaea was being built. 

 

_ “As you know, several weeks back, a Vishkar cargo ship en route to Utopaea was shot down by several bandits in the area, and the ship was raided before reinforcements could arrive.”  _ A picture of the crashed cargo ship was shown, picked clean on the inside, and the metal siding warped from abuse.

 

_ “A day after the crash, however, we noticed something odd about a bandit camp not too far from the crash site.” _

 

He quirked his head. “What did you notice?”

 

A single photo came into view of a sizable, smoldering crater in the center of a rundown settlement.

 

_ “We noticed it was no longer there, sir.”  _

 

The Man blinked and stared for a long time at the picture. He stared at the screen at first in shock, then disbelief. Then, he smiled wide, wider than he ever had in his entire life and he couldn’t help the giddy laugh that accompanied his words. “Symmetra, my dear, open a private ECHo channel for me, would you? I need to get in touch with a friend. You know the one, right?”

 

_ “Of course. Right away, sir.” _

  
  


\-----

  
  


Five years was a long time. Plenty of time for a city to change. People, too. Gibraltar, not ‘Watchpoint’. Winston at the helm, not Morrison. New folks all over the city everywhere he looked. Hell, Fareeha was a _ lieutenant,  _ for crying out loud.

 

With so much that had changed, Jesse couldn’t help but sigh in relief at all that hadn’t.

 

Lena was still the ever-energetic spark-plug of a mechanic he remembered. Within minutes of walking into that same old garage from all those years ago, her arms were around his neck and hugging him fiercely with a strength that betrayed her tiny form. She shrieked happily, rambling on about not seeing him in ages and how long it’d been, and would have certainly continued to do so ‘til the skags came home had Hanzo not brought up their need of a car.

 

She was quick to suit them up with a runner, and even quicker to remind them that they were  _ loaning _ the vehicle and that she expected in one piece. “I’ve got a business to run, after all,” had been her cheery response to Jesse’s griping. 

 

Old and new came together once again when they made a quick pit stop for ammo, and Jesse was greeted to a different Lindholm behind the counter of the city’s arms dealer. No longer the lanky teen he remembered her as, Brigitte had grown into a strong and sturdy young woman, though (thankfully) nowhere near as surly as Torbjörn himself. As she helped set them up with their goods, however, she informed him that while her old man was out at the time, he’d more than appreciate a whole day to properly talk Jesse’s ear off about how long it’d been.

 

He had to smile as they left, hearing Brigitte snap at a customer, who wanted a refund for a ‘faulty’ gun, in the words of her father: “Pah, it’s working as intended!”

 

That flash of nostalgia was one of those little things that settled his nerves. In his fast-paced life, both before and after becoming a Vault Hunter, he liked constants where he could find them. Things he could trust to happen, things he could count on to be the same, things that wouldn’t change. It was tiring to have to relearn, to have to readjust to a whole new set of rules time and time again, and yes, Jesse knew that things naturally change over time, as they are wont to do, but he still clung to the things he knew in the end.

 

Sure, they were little things, but not really. Not to him.

 

Hanzo seemed to be of a similar mindset. Or at least, Jesse assumed him to be. Granted, the gunslinger figured a lot of that came from being so new to Pandora, and hell, that’d be enough to rattle the toughest of folks, but it wasn’t just that. One look had been enough to tell the archer had lived a practiced lifestyle, one of strict training and tutoring. For what, Jesse hadn’t the foggiest idea, but he knew it meant Hanzo, too, felt comforted by familiarity where he could find it.

 

They were kindred spirits, or some other poetic saying that sounded all fancy-like. Someone with more time and patience could probably have come up with nicer words for this sort of thing, but Jesse was not lucky enough to have either luxury to do so himself. 

 

After all, he and the archer had some bullymongs to hunt.

 

Thanks to the runner, the drive through the tundra wastes was chilled, but brief. Even as they coasted through snow drifts and ice, however, Jesse made sure to give Hanzo the run-down for fighting the damn beasts on their way to the towers.  _ Better now than during a fight with them, _ he figured, the memory of the thresher attack still fresh in his mind.

 

Or, well, he had tried to.

 

“Remember, they ain’t armored or real fast like skags, but they’re strong as all get-out an’ ruthless, ‘specially when you get a bunch’a them together. They’ve live in packs, group up if any of their kin get hurt, an’ don’t take too kindly to folks treadin’ in their territory. They’ll hit you like a freight train, an’ then hit you  _ with  _ a freight train. Got all that?” 

 

Over the ECHo lines, he was met with silence, and he turned his head in his chair to check back at the man in the gunner chair uptop. Bundling up as much as he could in that tattered jacket of his, Hanzo’s brow was furrowed and his eyes were blankly staring out at the horizon, his mind clearly elsewhere it seemed.

 

“Han?”

 

His answer was a blink, and then a simple grunt. It was the kind that comes out when one person is clearly  _ not  _ listening to the other, but still wants to maintain the image of listening. 

 

Jesse frowned, and turned his head back towards the road. “Han, you even listenin’ to me?”

 

An indignant,  _ “Yes,”  _ was his response, but boy was his bull-shit meter going off. The gunslinger gave a gruff laugh and smirked through his headset. Or at least, tried to convey the idea of a smirk in words alone.

 

“Alright, then what was I just talkin’ ‘bout?”

 

There was a pause, and then a half-there mumble,  _ “You were talking about...bullymongs.” _

 

Jesse chuckled defeatedly. “Okay, not wrong, but you know what I mean.” He drifted to a slow pace as they rounded a corner, the road beneath the wheels crunching where snow met asphalt and ice formed between the cracks. “Been real quiet for a while now, boss. You holdin’ up alright?”

 

_ “I do not waste time with words, McCree. I had assumed you had figured as much by now.”  _ A week ago, he would have registered that sort of comment as a contempt end to a conversation from an aloof stranger. Now he just heard it as what it actually was: a huffy retort from a cornered snarker who just wanted to get in one quick ‘fuck you’ before he admitted defeat.

 

“Y’know, the more you say things like that, the more I’m inclined to believe you ain’t really the quiet sort you paint yourself as.” He shot a quick smile and a wink back at his passenger. “But I get it: new place, new folks, new everythin’. S’lot to take in.”

 

Across the field, he saw the mid-day sun begin to duck behind the mountains in the distance. Not fully dusk, but getting there. Around these parts, the sky seemed dull no matter the time of day. Jesse reckoned with the time spent in the city, they still had a handful of hours of daylight before the sun set fully. 

 

Some muffled static indicated a sigh through the ECHo.  _ “I will admit it that I was a bit… overwhelmed.” _

 

“An’ there ain’t no shame in that, quite frankly. Was in your boots a while back when I first came to Gibraltar.” He laughed fondly. “The place wasn’t called Gibraltar back then, an’ the city’s ‘bout half the size it used to be, but same difference.”

 

_ “That reminds me of something,”  _ Hanzo interjected suddenly.  _ “Early, Lieutenant Fareeha mentioned ‘rebuilding’ when speaking of the city, as did you at the gate. What did you both mean by that?” _

“Oh.” Jesse felt the smile fall from his lips and his grip on the steering wheel slacken. “That’s… kind of a long story there, Han. Not a real happy one either, if you catch my drift.”

 

_ “I do.”  _ There was a small pause. It was a simple statement that said far more about Hanzo than he ever expected. In any case, Hanzo persisted with a curt,  _ “A quick summary of the events, if you can.” _

 

“...Alright. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.” The gunslinger couldn’t help but sigh, and he scratched at his beard.

 

“So, couple years back, this company known as Talon comes to Pandora. They had gotten stupid rich from openin’ a Vault on another planet a while back, an’ someone told someone that Pandora’s got a Vault hidden away somewhere. So the greedy shits comes to Pandora, an’ starts minin’ away lookin’ for it, even though they already had more money than fuckin’ God at that point.”

 

He waved his hands freely as he spoke. “They weren’t kind folk by any means. Drilled through towns, left crews to die when they found nothin’, kidnapped people an’ forced ‘em to work for the company. Hell, they even hired their own special forces to enforce their rules, too. They did what it took, an’ they managed to find a key, in the end.”

 

“So then a bunch of people figured, fuck it, they’d band together to form Overwatch an’ fight off Talon where they could. Folks flocked to the rebellion, an’ before they knew it, Pandora had her first organized army. They fought tooth an’ nail against each other, an’ it got to the point where Overwatch was able to deal a serious blow to the company by destroyin’ Talon’s key.”

 

He could almost hear Hanzo’s eyes widen.  _ “You can destroy Vault Keys?” _

 

Jesse gave a shrug. “I guess so, yeah. Still don’t know how they did it, but next thing I heard, Talon was ravin’ mad an’ sendin’ out million dollar rewards for the heads of all those involved.” The runner banked left and he felt it pitch to the side as they ran over a mound of snow that had piled onto the road. “Wasn’t too much later that the city that housed the rebellion, Watchpoint, was... ransacked.” 

 

The memory alone was enough to put him on edge, and to say it out loud made his blood boil something fierce. Oh, ‘ransacked’ was too light a word, he realized. ‘Ransacked’ is what the back of a cara-van looked like after a pack of skags got into it, or bandits, or whatever. No, ‘ransacked’ was not the right word to describe all those innocent lives getting cut short that day.

 

“It was a fuckin’ bloodbath, is what it was. Buildings burned, friends an’ families killed in the streets… They didn’t care if you were Overwatch -- they just wanted every last fucker in that city dead, an’  _ they--” _

 

_ “McCree.” _

 

Hanzo’s clipped voice forced him to breathe. He hadn’t noticed he was near yelling at that point until he heard his own echoing voice bouncing back at him off of the mountains around them. Suddenly, his throat felt too raw and his jaw hurt as though he had been clenching it too tightly. 

 

“Sorry. Just…” Jesse sighed through his nose sharply and white-knuckled the wheel to ground himself. “Sorry.”

 

In stark contrast, Hanzo’s voice was quiet when he spoke up.  _ “What... happened to Talon after the key was destroyed?” _

 

“With, uh,” The Vault Hunter cleared his throat shakily. “Without the key, Talon couldn’t open the Vault even if they found it. Which they didn’t. Talon went bankrupt between the failed minin’ efforts an’ the fightin’. They left Pandora, an’ everyone’s been pickin’ up their mess ever since.” 

 

_ “I see.”  _ The Siren hesitated.  _ “...And what of you during this time? Were you--” _

 

“Oh-ho-ho, no. No, not goin’ there. ” Jesse laughed briskly as he brought the runner to a halt at a snow bank at the entrance to the Marrowfield. “Sorry, pumpkin, but you only asked ‘bout Gibraltar’s story- not mine.” He quickly unbuckled his seat and switched the engine and his ECHo off. “We’re here. Get your stuff, an’ we’ll roll out soon as you’re ready.”

 

Behind him, he heard Hanzo grunt as he jumped out of the gunner chair, landing beside him with a quiet crunch of snow. “I still want to learn of what happened some day.”

 

“Consider that a mutual feelin’ then.” Jesse reloaded his gun with a flourish and shot Hanzo another sly wink. 

 

That earned him an over-exaggerated eye roll from Hanzo, as well as a short laugh. “Later, then?”

 

“Later.”

 

Together, they turned their attention towards the snowy fields before them, past the archway of rock and snow. Appearance-wise, it was your average, run-of-the-mill small field nestled in a natural bowl of sorts, shielded from the outside by a pair of mountains that seemed to wrap around the majority of the fields. 

 

Boring, but peaceful. Save, of course, for the giant bones that gave the Marrowfield its name in the first place. 

 

Even from a distance, Jesse could see how they pocketed the hilly landscape and pierced the ground itself like broken ribs. They were a sickly off-white color compared to the pure white snow around them, and deep set groves ran through like those on trees. Some of them were only minorly chipped, some cracked but whole, and the rest were snapped in half and shattered into smaller, jagged pieces that formed a macabre fence of some kind near the entrances to the field.

 

He remembered asking Angela about what kind of creature could have left them in the first place, and her only response had been, “I don’t know, but I do know I never want to meet it.”

 

Once one got past the bones, there were the hollow caves affixed to the sides of the walls and the icy towers that housed similar holes. For the life of him, Jesse couldn’t figure out why bullymongs liked to nest so high off the ground when they were big enough to fight off just about anything that tried to fuck with them. He assumed it had something to do with skags taking the low ground for their own dens, but he wasn’t a biologist by any stretch of the means.

 

Speaking of the low ground, scattered all around at the base of these towers and caverns were piles of remains with much smaller bones of people, skags, and whatever else the damn beasts could get their hands on. The snow acted as a bit of a buffer to the otherwise unbearable stench of rot, decay, and feces, but Jesse still felt his stomach lurge when they passed a little too close to a large pile.

 

“Ugh,” The gunslinger curled his lips in disgust and motioned for them to duck into a small alcove off to the side of the entrance. “Okay, here’s the plan: we’re gonna have to sneak through the fields as best we can, an’ save our rounds for whatever’s in the server tower. It’ll be a pain, but it’s still better than fightin’ the damn beasts.”

 

“I thought you said bullymongs wouldn’t be an issue for us.” Hanzo crossed his arms.

 

“They ain’t, but two against however many of them’s still an unfair fight, don’cha think?” Jesse gestured towards the icy dens all over the field. With a half-smile, he turned back to Hanzo and chuckled low. “But hey, I just figured we do things your way for once, since it's technically _ your  _ mission.”

 

“My mission now, you say? What convenient timing.” The archer smirked. “Just what makes you think that slipping through wide-open fields filled with these bullymongs is ‘my way’?”

 

“Well, seein’ as you’re always the one gettin’ on my case for bein’ too rash, an’ your knack for scarin’ the shit outta me with how quiet you are, I figured you’d enjoy a bit of light treadin’ for a change.” Jesse shrugged. “But hey, if this really ain’t your style, you decide. Like I said: your mission, your call, boss.”

 

Hanzo glanced at him for a moment or so longer, then peered on past his shoulder towards the Marrowfield. His lips moved faintly, counting under his breath and muttering to himself as puffs of air formed in the air. A few times he heard a language he wasn’t familiar with, a short staccato rhythm with sharp stops and quick syllables, but after a moment more, Hanzo turned back to Jesse fully.

 

“You will follow my lead closely and quietly. Step as I do, and stay towards the outer edge of the field.” Hanzo retrieved the Dahl handgun from his side belt, and held it down by his hip as he nodded out past the archway. “Should anything go wrong, we should only try to slow them down. If they are as troublesome in a group as you make them out to be, then we would be wasting ammunition if we were to try and kill them as we made our way through.”

 

“Stay close, move quiet, run if we fuck up.” Jesse checked his own rounds as he spoke. Eight packs of six, forty-eight bullets total. Wasn’t like he was hurting for ammo, but if things got dicey, he could find himself up shit-creek without a paddle real fast. 

 

He’d better make them count, then.

 

“Lead the way, boss.”

 

Hanzo nodded without another word, and just like that, Jesse watched as his whole demeanor shifted one-eighty from the calculating archer to that of a trained martialist. He crouched low to the ground, keeping his head forward as he began to tread through the snowbanks in feather-light footsteps. At times, Jesse had to strain to even hear them over the winding wind through the mountains. It was something else, to watch someone who should be trudging through the heavy snow, and see them practically skating on top of it with little resistance.

 

True to his word, Hanzo led them around the outskirts of the Marrowfield, towards the base of the mountains that cut off the field from the rest of Three Horns. They didn’t move fast, but they moved with purpose. Jesse did his best to move in synch with him; every tiny movement he saw Hanzo make, he tried to mimic on his own. He stepped only where he saw Hanzo himself step and no further, all but matching the archer’s footprints in the snow as they stealthed through the bone-laden field of bullymong dens. They even devised a pretty efficient system for hiding without ever saying anything to each other: whenever one of them heard something, they’d stop, motion where the sound was coming from, and then find the nearest bone to duck behind and wait until they felt it safe to continue forward. 

 

At one point, a single bullymong had emerged groggily from its hole and dropped to the ground with a mighty  _ crunch _ , the thick ice beneath the snow cracking sharply under the weight of its hulking form. Hanzo had all but shoved the two of them against the largest broken bone they could find before clamping a hand over his mouth and another over Jesse’s, fear painted plain as day on his face. He hadn’t cared, though; he had been too busy trying not breathe too loudly.

 

They hadn’t watched the bullymong, and had only listened with growing dread as it wandered painfully close their hiding spot, those formidable forearms stomping into the snow drifts and ice as it sniffed the air and gave a low, rumbling grunting noise.

 

The gunslinger felt his heartbeat in his ears, pounding so loudly. He could feel Hanzo’s quickened pulse through the hand on his mouth as well, and their eyes briefly met in shared panic when they saw the shadow of the beast’s hand not but a few feet away from Hanzo’s foot.

 

A moment passed. 

 

Then another. And another, and another, each one slower than the next.

 

Finally, the hulking brute gave a great deep howl, then a hitching breathy sound, almost like a yawn, and Jesse heard the tell-tale sounds of heavy fist-falls headed back towards the cavern. Peeking his head around cover, he watched the bullymong crawl back into the hole in the canyon wall, and only gave Hanzo a thumbs-up to go after ten or so more minutes or so had passed.

 

The two had shared an unspoken understanding of ‘quieter, and quicker’, and then they continued pushing forward through the banks silently.

 

Jesse had learned how to sneak behind enemy lines from Reyes years ago, learned when and how to be quiet as dormouse when the time called for it. He had learned just about everything from the guy, and got so good at sneaking that folks would joke his spurs were the only way they could hear him coming, saying it was like the bell of a cat. 

 

But the archer? Oh, Hanzo was something else  _ entirely _ , and Jesse felt a spark of interest at the idea of someone being just  _ that _ much better than him at something he was already pretty damn good at.

 

Just when his knee began to burn from how much he was crouching, Jesse saw the top of an antenna come into view and he felt his lungs breathe in what felt like the first gulp of air he had taken since arriving at the Marrowfield.

 

He pointed out the building to the archer, and saw a smile flash across his otherwise stoic face as they made their way towards a brief respite along the outer ridge of where the fields turned to cliff. A large wall of rock and stone provided ample cover for them as they took a minute to scan their surroundings, Jesse still feeling the adrenaline flaring up through his veins.

 

From their new angle, Jesse could see the entrance to the server tower that was buttressed up against the backside of a natural alcove, where the fields narrowed sharply into a canyon passage through the western mountainside. 

 

The whole server tower was actually two buildings in its entirety with a mangled barbed fence out front that stretched from one canyon wall to the other. The taller of the two stood towards the back of the canyon, made of thick metals and concrete, and housed the large satellite antenna that Jesse saw earlier. Meanwhile, the shorter building filled out the rest of the space between the canyon walls, the patchwork sheet metal paneling broken up by only a handful of boarded up windows and an old rusted door that looked as though it would sooner fall off its hinges than swing out one way or the other. In both cases, their gunmetal grey exteriors looked as though they had seen some heavy wear and tear, and the old Jakobs logo on the fuel generator beside the hut was practically illegible at this point.

 

He never knew much about the place, whatever it had been before the rebellion sought it out and claimed it for the city. Jesse had heard of how some of the brainier folks had worked their butts off to renovate it and make it usable: sturdier walls, better reception, the whole kit-and-kaboodle. They’d decked out the place with the best tech they could get their hands on, which usually was just whatever they could pilfer off of Talon equipment and soldiers back then. But other than that, Gibraltar’s ECHo tower was as alien to him as goddamn Eridians.

 

He told Hanzo as much as they cut a path through the barbed wire. With an incredulous look, the archer gave a short, mirthless laugh as he nodded towards the tower bitterly. 

 

“I find it hard to believe that Overwatch would willingly build such a vital asset to the rebellion in the middle of bullymong territory.” His foot tapped the edge of some wired fencing on the ground as he waved his hand for emphasis. “The damage they would cause alone would outweigh any gain received from this building, unless Overwatch built some sort of shield to keep out the local wildlife.”

 

Jesse laughed sourly. “Nah, don’t think they have anythin’ like that here, angel. Like I said, the place was already here when Overwatch took it over; they just spruced it up, made it all nice an’ fancy on the inside. Location ain’t ideal, but that’s Pandora for you.”

 

“You misunderstand me, McCree.” Hanzo frowned further and shook his head. Taking a moment to look over the entirety of the complex, the Siren frowned further and crossed his arms across his chest. “Why is Gibraltar just now starting to have issues with their communication lines if bullymongs have always lived over in the Marrowfield, as you said?”

 

The gunslinger paused mid-stride and looked up in thought. Truthfully, he hadn’t considered the ‘why’ of the situation, having been more focused on the ‘what’ and the ‘how to fix’. It had made plenty sense in his mind when he first told Hanzo his theory at Em’s. Bullymongs were always building nests in tall structures, man-made or otherwise, so it seemed perfectly reasonable to assume they’d take over the server tower eventually.

 

Sure, Hanzo made a fair point, but if bullymongs weren’t the root of the problem, then what  _ was  _ the issue?

 

With an uncertain shrug and no clear answer jumping out at him, Jesse grunted heartily as he dug his hands into the doorframe and wedged the damn thing open as best he could, ushering Hanzo through the opening before slipping through himself and letting the heavy door shut behind them with a creaking slam.

 

Inside, it was pitch-black, save for the streaks of sunlight peeking through holes in the walls, and the flickering fluorescent bulbs in the ceiling that hung precariously from frayed wires above them. It made the cold, dark room feel even colder and darker, and then tacked on “creepy as fuck” to boot.  Underfoot, the ground cracked and crunched as broken bits of debris and glass crackled beneath their boots, the sound reverberating around in the foyer room and continuing down until it disappeared into the darkness of the hallway.

 

The most noticeable thing in the room, however, was the stench. It was a terrible mix of mildew, rusted iron, and something utterly foul that seemed to be coming from both nowhere and everywhere all at once. The mildew he guessed was between where the walls met the floor, and ice and snow from the outside had seeped in and melted into filthy puddles on the ground. The rusted iron probably was from the door and hinges on walls here and there, and old exposed piping that had long since iced over. 

 

Whatever that “something utterly foul” was, however, was hidden from immediate view in the darkness of the room.

 

The lightswitch was busted, Jesse quickly found out after flicking it a couple of times and watching as the fluorescent light zapped and zinged, but refused to power on. He sighed bitterly as he fit a cigar between his lips and blindly reached for the lighter on his hip. “Nothin’s ever easy, is it?” 

 

The archer gave a similar, tired sigh, and held up his hand. “Do not bother with that.”

 

Jesse turned to ask Hanzo what he meant, only to suddenly see a familiar, faint glow peeking from underneath the dark leather jacket, and those swirling tattoos illuminating the immediate space around them in a pale blue light. 

 

The gunslinger’s eyes widened and he stared ahead in shock and awe. The unlit cigar tumbled freely from his lips and tapped his shoe as it hit the floor.

 

Hanzo rolled his eyes, which were near white from the light shining through them. “If you are finished staring, McCree, we should--”

 

But Jesse stopped him short, his attention not on the Siren but directly behind him. Slowly, he put a hand on Hanzo’s shoulder and turned him to face the back wall, pointing ahead with a steely gaze.

 

It seemed that the “something utterly foul” from before was the blood splattered across the floor and walls that trailed further into the complex. 

 

In the far corner of the room, they could now see the slumped small pile of bodies, bandit and otherwise, in all stages of rot and decay. Deep, jagged gashes marred the corpses in every which way, like some horribly crooked saw had hooked in and cut them up with reckless abandon. The luckier ones were still intact with only some slashes and stab wounds across their torsos, while the rest had been hacked at until they were barely recognizable as people.

 

Jesse heard Hanzo swear colorfully under his breath beside him, the light from his tattoos flickering unsteadily. “McCree, what even…?”

  
“I don’t know, Han,” He whispered, suddenly all too aware of the sound of their voices echoing down the hall. “But it sure as  _ hell  _ ain’t no bullymong.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the delay in chapters, hoping that in the next few months things will begin to settle a bit more to where i can write more consistently and stuff!!
> 
> as usual, you can find me over [here](http://aerihead.tumblr.com/) and the amazing cicada over [here](http://thetiniestcicada.tumblr.com/) on tumblr!!


	15. Rule Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BIG NOTICE Y'ALL
> 
> \----
> 
> The following chapter ahead contains graphic violence and even some possible triggers for some! Fortunately, my good friend and editor Cin has provided us with a lovely summary of the chapter that will be posted at the very end of this chapter! 
> 
> If you are uncomfortable with extreme violence and/or are triggered by: strangulation, blood, body horror, gore, or hell, just don't care for intense fight scenes, feel free to just skip to the end notes for the summary!
> 
> I'd rather my readers be comfortable and able to follow the story rather than panic because they feel like they need to force themselves through whatever I create! If there are any other triggers that I forgot to mention, please let me know and I will add them and take note for future chapters as well.
> 
> Thank you for reading and as always, you can find me over [here](http://aerihead.tumblr.com/) and Cin over [here](http://thetiniestcicada.tumblr.com/) on tumblr!

  
  


_ Remember to breathe. _

 

Hanzo opened his mouth, and immediately sputtered and coughed into the crook of his arm as he tried to hide from the death-laden air. It was of little use, however; the room was heavy with the stench of rot, and it weighed down his lungs like cement. 

 

Even with the light from his tattoos, the room was too dark, and too cold. He shivered, and then the room grew darker still as his arm dimmed back to normal.

 

“Shit.” The Vault Hunter brought his cloak up over his mouth. “This ain’t right.”

 

Hanzo choked, and fought back another wave of nausea. “So much death...”

 

Beside him, Jesse seemed transfixed on something far away from this room, only to shake himself out of whatever trance he was in a moment later. He took a hesitant step towards the pile of bodies and brought out his lighter, the orange-red flame flickering softly in the chilled darkness as he reached down to examine one of the few whole corpses on the ground. 

 

“Cold’s kept ‘em from rottin’ too much. Hard to say how long they’ve been here.” He heard the man give a disgusted noise as he poked and prodded the pile, rifling through the pockets of the bodies and pocketing what looked to be small boxes of ammunition of all kinds. “Sure as hell ain’t... fresh, though.”

 

Hanzo frowned. “Is that supposed to comfort me?”

 

Jesse’s hardened eyes darted briefly towards the back to the wall behind Hanzo and he pursed his lips into a thin line as he handed out one of the boxes of ammo. “Only if you’re comforted by the phrase ‘stale corpses’. Which, I’m guessin’ you’re not.”

 

“No. No, I’m not.” Taking the cartridge of bullets from the cowboy, the archer stepped back to take in the rest of the grisly scene before them.

 

The bodies aside, he could see that the blood splattered against the wall had long lost all its color, now taking on an ugly rusted hue against the metallic greys and faded paint. His eyes followed the splatters down the hallway until the gory trail disappeared into the darkness further ahead of them. There were a few broken and cracked monitors spersed along the walls, old terminals that looked as though they had been sawed in half, and a set of doors that sparked and fizzed occasionally, all of which bore similar stains of dried blood.

 

Outside, he could hear the wind whistling, causing an eerie hollow moan to echo throughout the building and chill him to the core with its haunting tone. Everything felt suffocating, his body weighed down with an unseen, oppressive force. It wasn’t one thing alone, though: it was the freezing temperature and the groaning of the settling structure, the scent of blood and viscera that permeated the air, and the utter loneliness this long-abandoned building exuded.

 

He shuddered involuntarily, and pulled his jacket collar up to his mouth.

 

“Well, what do we have here?” Hanzo heard Jesse’s knees pop in the relative silence of the room as the other stood to his feet. In his hand was a familiar rectangular device, its buttons stained red and worn down, but otherwise intact. 

 

“An ECHO log?” The archer’s brow furrowed. “What is that doing here, of all places?”

 

“Your guess is as good as mine.” Jesse shrugged. “Lots of people use ‘em like diaries or make notes -- warnings, weapon cache locations, reminders, those sorts of things. Then they end up losin’ ‘em in the strangest places. Baffles me sometimes how bad some folks are at holdin’ onto the damn things.” He rattled the tape in the air. “Wanna check it out?”

 

“No.” Hanzo said quickly, yet he couldn’t tear his eyes from the tape in Jesse’s hands. As if to taunt him, Jesse raised the ECHO log and caught his gaze with a smirk, causing the archer to look away with a scowl. Focusing down the hallway, he nodded ahead. “We should hurry along. We have more important things to do than listening to a dead man’s diary, McCree.”

 

“We can listen to it while we walk.” Jesse twirled the device in his hands playfully as they began their trek down the narrow corridor. “It’ll be the perfect ambiance for strollin’ through an abandoned server tower that’s definitely  _ not  _ housing some horrifying killer.”

 

“McCree--” Before he could protest further, Hanzo heard the  _ click-clunk _ of Jesse snapping the log into his ECHO and hitting play. 

 

First, there was the sounds of heavy static, joining their footsteps alongside the relative silence of the hallway. Then came a voice that suddenly cut through the quiet with a broken laugh. It sounded raw and unhinged, their words forced out with far more power than they needed. 

 

Like a gun using the wrong ammo. 

 

_ “Today, I found a shiny new home full of shiny new meat puppets! They ran and they screamed and they danced like no one was watching! No one, no one but me was around to hear their sweet songs! ” _

 

The voice boomed and they both flinched sharply at the volume. Hanzo watched as Jesse fumbled with the log, his eyes glancing down the darkened hall nervously. “Shit,  _ shit,  _ shit--”

 

_ “Mommy said she wouldn’t look at me AND NOW NO ONE WILL LOOK AT ME!”  _

 

Hanzo could hear the voice echoing down the passage, bouncing and pounding against the all-too-narrow walls. His hand hovered over his bow, then shifted to the repeater at his side. 

 

The bow. The gun.

 

The hall was too narrow for bow, the gun was unfamiliar. He needed to think fast.  _ Think, damn it. _

 

“C’mon, c’mon…” The Vault Hunter smacked his ECHO with shaky hands. “Ya stupid hunk of-- Shut up!”

 

Another voice suddenly rang out, different than the first. It was full of pure fear, speaking in hysterics. Terrified for their life. Gunshots rang out in the background.

 

_ “S-stay the hell away from me, you freaking psycho!”  _ One, two, three shots impacted. A horrific scream. _ “Just… Just  _ **_die_ ** _ already! No… No! No--” _

 

Their words turned to a guttural cry as a buzzing, mechanical whirring noise ripped through the air, sinking deep within something soft. The second voice screeched, gurgled wetly, and then there was a boneless thump as something solid hit the ground. 

 

Hanzo’s stomach lurched into his throat as something thick crunched. The whirring continued even still, as the first voice laughed, and laughed, and cried out in a sickly sing-song cry.  _ “Honey, I’m home!” _

 

Jesse shut off his ECHO, and everything finally fell silent. But not really.

 

Everything in that moment,  _ everything,  _ was too loud. The wind outside was a typhoon. The settling of tower was millions of pots and pans clattering. The sound of his heartbeat echoed in his ears and all around, and it pounded and pounded and  _ pounded _ . 

 

Hanzo grabbed Jesse’s arm, and hauled the two of them into the first open door he saw just as the first of the footsteps came from further down the hallway. Pressing themselves into a corner by the door, Jesse quickly leaned over and yanked it closed -- the moment it clicked shut, Hanzo snuffed out his lights, and once more, they found themselves in the dark.

 

The footsteps were not so distant, and they had an uneven  _ thu-thunk  _ rhythm, like one foot wasn’t pulling as much weight as the other. 

 

_ Thu-thunk. Thu-thunk.  _ It was closer. Hanzo cupped a hand over his mouth to muffle his breath.

 

_ Thu-thunk. Thu. Thunk.  _ It stopped, and Jesse flinched against him.

 

A voice came from beyond the door. It was low, but he knew it. Gruff and hoarse. Raw. Unhinged. 

 

Wrong. 

 

_ The psycho. _

 

“Give me my robe. Put on my crown!” The psycho screeched. The wall shook and shuddered beside Hanzo’s head with four sharp bangs. “I have...  _ immortal longings _ in me!”

 

Hanzo was not normally afraid of the dark. He was not normally afraid of close spaces, or loud noises, or even deranged lunatics who wandered decrepit halls. 

 

But  _ this  _ was not normal, and Hanzo was shaking in fear for his life.

 

Hanzo recoiled at the sudden rattling screech of metal scraping metal, and bit his cheek to keep from making a sound.

 

“No one, no one, no one, no one, no one… But where’s the kitty?” The psycho whined childishly. “Mr. Skaggles! You’ll miss tea time if you don’t come and play!”

 

_ Thu-thunk, thu-thunk. Thu-thunk. Thu-thunk. _ He could barely hear the footsteps now over his hammering pulse. They passed the door, and the metal scraping noise was back, dragging along in the floor with a horrific shrill.  _ Screeech. _

 

The psycho mumbled, grumbled, and began to sing in the silence, their voice growing distant as they shuffled down the corridor once more.

 

_ “We came to town to see, that old tattooed lady, she was a sight to see, da-da-da boom dee-ay…” _

 

They jauntily hummed the second verse, and their footsteps faded away, further in towards the rest of the compound, the hall finally returning to relative peace and quiet.

 

Five minutes, then ten, then twenty passed before either one of them dared to speak. 

 

“So… my bad.” Jesse croaked beside him. 

 

Hanzo wasn’t sure if it was the adrenaline wearing off or the wave of relief that flooded his whole being, but laughing silently was the only thing he could do to keep from passing out then and there. Between breathy chuckles, he let himself glow just a bit, enough to give their eyes something to adjust to, and it was only then that he realized just how close they were. 

 

They had their backs against each wall of the corner with only a scant few inches between them. Neither of them were arguably small either, which only made the already tight space feel even tighter. What he had thought had been the weight of his fears weighing against his chest was actually Jesse’s gloved hand, corralling and pushing him further into the corner in almost a protective way.

 

They both looked down at the offending hand, then back at each other before Jesse quickly drew it back, turning away from Hanzo’s gaze with a short cough. 

 

“I, uh… Thought that was the wall. Sorry.”

 

“It’s fine.” Hanzo blinked. “It was dark.”

 

“Yeah, it, uh… it was, wasn’t it?” Jesse gave a sheepish, rumbling laugh, one that Hanzo felt more than heard in the space between them. After a bit of an awkward shuffling, the two managed to un-wedge themselves out from the nook and took a few hesitant steps forward into the rest of the room.

 

It wasn’t a horribly large room, but clearly one with purpose. Every square inch of space they could see was covered with wall to wall terminals, electrical components, or video screens. Even the floor was snaked with cables and power cords that crossed over each other in such a dizzying mess that Hanzo couldn’t tell where one line ended and another one began.

 

The far back wall was almost entirely made up of monitors of varying size and make, some with cracks but all of them covered in a thin layer of dust that spoke of just how long they had sat idle. A large console sat at the bottom of the monitor wall, and two modest desk chairs were fixed to the ground in front of the console, ratty and worn to where a few loose springs were threatening to stab whatever poor soul would dare sit in them.

 

“Guessin’ this was the surveillance room.” Jesse muttered as he ran his hand along the dusted console, eyes trained on the monitors. Carefully and slowly, the gunslinger circled the desk, fiddling with stray wires and panels here and there as he spoke. “Wonder if any of this stuff still works.”

 

“What good would that do us?” Hanzo frowned.

 

Jesse shrugged and tried the unresponsive keys on the console. “Not sure, but it can’t hurt to check things out. That’s our mission, right?”

 

“I was under the impression our mission was to determine the source of the problem and report back -- not to mess with these useless computers.” He fired back, arms folded across his chest. “We do not have time for such frivolous pursuits.”

 

“Ease up there, archer. Fareeha wanted us to check things out, an’ knowin’ her like I do, she’d want the lines up an’ runnin’ as soon as possible. We get the ECHo back up, that’s one less trip someone’s gonna have to make all the way out here.” Jesse waved his hand dismissively, and crouched down under the console. “Two birds, an’ all that.”

 

Hanzo pinched his brow. “How would fiddling with an old surveillance system be of any use in reestablishing a communication line?”

 

As if to answer him, the quiet hum of circuits coming to life suddenly filled the room, and Hanzo watched Jesse crawled out from underneath the console with a sly grin. “Guess we’re ‘bout to find out.”

 

It was a slow process, lights on the various terminals and computers slowly blinking on and off as they tried to start up. There was a low droning sound, and then finally, finally the central monitor flickered to life with a blue twisted V logo, and the name ‘VISHKAR CORP.’ in thin, pencil-straight lettering.

 

Beside him, Jesse swore lightly under his breath. “Figures it’d be Vish.”

Hanzo watched a box pop up underneath the logo on screen, and the keyboard below came online as well, unfamiliar symbols glowing underneath the light from the monitor. “Overwatch was using Vishkar technology, then. ”

 

“Everyone does, really.” The Vault Hunter sighed, shaking his head as he started typing. “Didn’t use to be that way. Few years back, Vish used to just do little stuff here and there like security systems and surveillance cameras. That, an’ a few guns, but nothin’ that ever sold well enough.”

 

“That is strange to hear, given their current reach and influence.” Hanzo watched curiously Jesse type several short pass-phrases, all of which were rejected with a small error noise, and a hiss of anger from the man himself. 

 

“You’re tellin’ me. They’re a secretive bunch, didn’t really do much in the public eye ‘til they started their whole rebuildin’ efforts. Now suddenly they’ve got all this firepower to back up their demands, an’ there ain’t much regular folks can do to stop ‘em.” Finally, there was a small blip of green, and suddenly the many other monitors light up in a bright blue hue that nearly blinded Hanzo with its intensity. 

 

“Where did you learn to do that?” The Siren asked once his eyes no longer burned. “I did not realize you were so familiar with technology.”

 

“Oh, that?” Jesse smiled wryly and chuckled, browsing through old camera feeds and videos as he spoke. “That’s just a lil’ trick an ol’ friend taught me. I ain’t too bad, but there’s lots more out there who know more than me ‘bout all this.”

 

Despite the man’s lackadaisical manner, Hanzo knew that there was more than met the eye when it came to Jesse McCree. 

 

He moved to inquire further, but then he heard it. Distant, but there. Unmistakable.

 

_ Thu-thunk. Screeeech. _

 

He turned his attention towards the way the light curled underneath the closed door and into the darkened hallway outside. His fingers twitched to his quiver, and he was quickly reminded of their current location.

 

Of how much noise they were making, and of the psycho that wandered these halls.

 

“McCree.” He hissed. “We need to go now.”

 

“Gimme just a sec’, Han.” Jesse nodded, his focus entirely on the terminal in front of him. “Need to figure out where the main power is.”

 

Hanzo pulled on Jesse’s arm, but the man didn’t budge. “We will find that on our own, McCree. Forget the computer, and let’s go.”

 

_ Thu-thunk, thu-thunk, screeech. _ It sounded faster. Hanzo gripped his handgun, and loaded it with shaking hands. “McCree, we don’t have time!”

 

There was a flash of movement on the screen to the right of Jesse’s head. Hanzo couldn’t tell where it came from, but the footsteps were louder, closer, and even faster. He spun around towards the door, gun pointed at the ready. “McCree--”

 

“I know, I know, Han! Just a lil’ bit more!” Jesse called out. “Almost there!”

 

_ Thu-thunk, screech, thu-thunk, thu-thu-thu-thunk-- _

 

Hanzo felt his skin burn bright as he shouted over his shoulder, “Jesse,  _ move now _ !”

 

The door slammed open, and a giant buzz-axe shot across the room before embedding into the computer just beside Jesse’s head. It cracked, shattered, and sent glass and sparks rocketing out in a violent spray.

 

From behind, there was an animalistic growl, followed by a shout of unbridled glee, “I am the one who knocks!”

 

Nothing, not even the nightmares that kept him up at night, could have prepared Hanzo for the…  _ thing _ that stood there in the doorway. 

 

Misshapen limbs, one arm shriveled into its side but the other swollen and bulging with sinewy muscles, hanging low by its knees. Its face was covered in a bizzare skull mask, shrapnel and bits of sharpened metal jammed into it like a pin cushion. Covered in blood, but no open wounds; only horrific scars that hadn’t healed right. 

 

Hanzo took aim at its head without another word and pulled the trigger. The shot went wide, the gun’s recoil much stronger than he was expecting, and he watched the doorway spark as the bullet ricocheted off the metal frame. 

 

There was little he could do about it, though; the fuse now lit, the psycho screeched and exploded forth into the room. Its head ducked low as it screamed and charged towards Jesse, knocking Hanzo aside in its wake and hurling him into the lockers against the wall.

 

Jesse, quick and nimble, rolled to the side just as the psycho crashed shoulder-first into the console. The rest of the monitors shattered from the impact, glass raining all around, and the giant console bent inward with a horrible, metallic crunching sound.

 

“Why don’t you  _ look  _ at me? Look at me!” 

 

The psycho’s voice morphed into a pained groan as Jesse fired a shot into its knee. It spun around to stare at the man on the ground, and with a delighted cry, it reached for the buzz-axe wedged in the screens. 

 

_ Move, move, move, damn you.  _ Hanzo peeled himself off the lockers and staggered into the doorway. His heart pounding and his back aching, he raised the gun, adjusted his aim for the weight, and fired three times in succession, his hand jerking back wildly with each shot. 

 

Two slammed into its bare shoulder while the third pierced into the hand on the buzz-axe. The psycho recoiled with a yelp, and spun around to face Hanzo. “Mommy said...  _ it’s rude to interrupt! _ ”

 

With blinding speed, the psycho barrelled forth and charged into Hanzo, slamming him into the hallway wall by his neck. The Siren gagged, his air forced from his chest but catching on the hand that clutched his throat. He coughed and sputtered, and felt the gun slip from his grip before clattering to the ground. 

 

He scrambled, swatted, clawed at the hand. Everything spun,  _ everything hurt.  _ He couldn’t breathe. His vision swam, his ears rang. The psycho was saying something and laughing; didn’t matter, it was gibberish all the same. 

 

“Hanzo!”

 

He saw the shape of Jesse rushing up behind them, and heard a whirring buzz as the axe blade sunk deep into the psycho’s back. It howled in agony, the grip on his neck loosening in that split second and Hanzo felt the smallest puff of air flow into him.

 

But it was all he needed. 

 

With panicked strength, his skin burned, and it burned  _ bright and hot _ . The psycho drew back its scalded hand, and Hanzo fell to the ground, gasping with tears stinging in his eyes.

 

In its pained flailing, Jesse was flung against the wall, slamming and landing on the floor opposite to the recovering archer himself. The psycho gave a wailing moan as it wrenched the axe from its back, the axe blade dyed madder from its own blood.

 

“I’m going to turn you… into  _ flesh smoothies! _ ”

 

It raised the axe high in the air, and Hanzo grabbed his gun and fired every round in that damn clip.

 

Bullets riddled the back of the psycho, and it yowled and roared and whimpered. It stumbled on nothing, its back twisted and locked up in pain. The psycho’s arm slumped to its side limply, and  the axe clattered to the ground with a resounding, clanging noise. It tottered one step, then another, before finally collapsing into a bloody heap in the doorway of the surveillance room.

 

Everything fell silent, and this time, it truly was  _ silent _ .

 

That is, until Hanzo heard Jesse groan face-first into the floor, “I hate this goddamn planet.”

  
  


\-----

  
  


The Man in the Nice Suit found his way once again to the server room when he got the message. Begrudgingly so, since Symmetra  _ had  _ interrupted him during his lunch break and honestly he really didn’t want to miss out on chicken tikka day in the cafeteria. 

 

Nevertheless, he was there now, and the room lit up once again, a voice coming in overhead as he arrived in the center of the room.  _ “Thank you for coming on such short notice, sir.” _

 

He waved his hand with a smile. “Please, my dear, think nothing of it. Now, tell me what all this hullabaloo is about. What’s gotten your wires in such a tizzy?”

 

A holo-screen was projected out in front of him, and a map of Pandora was shown again. This time, it was of a place he knew well, a place that had been a thorn in his sides for far, far, far too long. 

 

Three Horns, and with Three Horns, came that infuriating city of Gibraltar. He withheld his misgivings for now, and watched as the map focused in on not the city, but a location further south of it close to the water on a cliffside. A small red dot blinked on and off in a far nook of the icy coastline.

 

“Just what am I looking at here, Symmetra?”

 

_ “I’m not sure, but--” _

 

“Wait, wait, wait, wait. You’re not sure?” The Man in the Nice Suit balked. “You have nearly the entire ECHOnet at your metaphorical finger tips! Your processors are faster than anything this side of the universe, and you’re telling me ‘you’re not sure’ about something?”

 

_ “Indeed, sir.”  _ Symmetra said plainly.

 

The Man in the Nice Suit pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled sharply. He was going to have a long talk with research-and-development after this.

 

The map on screen enhanced slightly to show a larger sweep of the Three Horns topography, the blinking dot shifting slightly to accommodate.  _ “As you may well know, we lost an important communications tower to the bandits of Pandora years ago, which was then taken over by the first Overwatch.” _

 

The Man in the Nice Suit grumbled, remembering just how much the former head of Vishkar had chewed everyone out on the matter. It’s a good thing no one liked him enough to care when he was forcibly ejected into space. 

 

“So, what then, did you hear something about it? Did something come up about it? Why bring it up now, my dear?”

 

The screen faded into a warbling blue line.  _ “I detected a Vishkar Corporation surveillance system coming back online in that former tower. It was brief, but nevertheless gave me a window to see into the current status of the tower.” _

 

Curiosity somewhat piqued, the Man in the Nice Suit frowned. “I’m still not sure where this is going, Symmetra. Please cut to the chase, so to speak, so I can decide if this is worth wasting precious time and money on.”

 

_ “I thought you would say that, sir.” _

 

Suddenly, the screen shifted in size to show a hazy, static picture of a dark, dark room. Too dark to make out much of anything, really, except for the two figures standing in front of a large console. 

 

The one on the left was almost completely obscured by shadows, their features both unremarkable and too fuzzy in the picture. It didn’t matter much anyways, because then the screen zoomed to focus on the other figure on the right, and on the glowing tattoos that covered one arm.

 

“Oh. Well,” The Man in the Nice Suit laughed. “That’s a lovely surprise.” Ah, he loved it when things were made easy for him. With a skip in his step, he did an about-face and began heading towards the door. “My dear, I think it’s time to move on with the second phase of our project, wouldn’t you agree?”

 

_ “Shouldn’t we wait to recover the fragment first, sir?” _

 

“Trust me, Symmetra, my dear.” He stopped in the doorway for a second to look back into the room with a grin. “This is exactly what we’ve been waiting for.”

 

\-----

  
  


“Alright, last one!” 

 

The generator roared to life with the flip of that final switch, and for the first time since they had walked into this dark, cold tower, the lights came on. Around them, Hanzo watched as all the wall-to-wall servers and other scattered bits of machinery began to beep and hum, drowning out the sounds of the world outside with their din. 

 

Jesse shut the breaker panel and joined Hanzo around the corner at the central terminal, dusting his hands off on his chaps and turning to survey the many screens of graphs and flashing buttons before them. “Looks like we’re all done here, what say you?”

 

Hanzo gazed at the monitors and confusing series of numbers and values appearing next to rippling waves and rising bars. “We do not need to interfere any further?”

 

The Vault Hunter shook his head. “Nah, this is where we hand the problem back over to Overwatch. Think we took out the biggest of their concerns, so my guess is that they’ll be sendin’ someone up here to finish up. Fareeha an’ Winston’re gonna have this up an’ runnin’ like clockwork before we know it.”

 

“Good.” Hanzo nodded and shivered. “I despise the idea of staying here any longer.”

 

Jesse laughed heartily, already taking a few steps towards the door. “Let’s get goin’, then. Reeha didn’t mention a reward, but after the shit we went through, I’m thinkin’ we more than earned somethin’.”

 

Hanzo gave a weary, “Agreed,” before following suit behind Jesse, and they made their way back towards the front of the building in relative, but comfortable silence.

 

It wasn’t as long-lived as he thought it would be, however; after just a short while of walking, they came upon the surveillance room and the corpse in the doorway. In the light, the psycho’s lifeless body was far more unnerving to Hanzo, and he was forced to move to the side in order not to step on it as they passed by.

 

“It seems... we’re even now.”

 

Jesse hummed in acknowledgement, listening but waiting for him to continue. 

 

“You saved my life. I saved yours before, so we are even now.” He explained simply, despite the weight of his words. With a grin, he added, “Does that mean you are the guardian angel now?”

 

The gunslinger chuckled and shook his head. “Nope, you’re still it. That sumbitch was gonna chop me in two if you hadn’t shot it up.”

 

“I would not have been able to do so if that thing had strangled me to death.” Hanzo gave a long sigh before coming to a halt, Jesse continuing further for only a few more steps before turning back around to face him. The archer looked down at the floor, then back up at Jesse, and finally bowed deeply with his hands at his sides. “I… thank you.”

 

When he rose back up, Jesse’s eyes were wide with surprise, and he watched as the man tipped his hat down with an oddly endearing shyness he hadn’t known to associate with Jesse McCree. “I was just lookin’ out for a friend. Anybody woulda done it.”

 

“Perhaps.” He smiled as he began walking again. “But I am glad it was you.”

 

Behind him, he heard a quick, “Shucks,” before the jingling of spurs caught up to him, and the two of them finally reached the lobby of the tower where they had begun. Together, they wedged the old rusted door open once again with a mighty heave, plunging them back out into the biting cold of the Marrowfield once more.

 

It wasn’t until they were well on their way to Gibraltar that the silence was broken once again for Hanzo, though not by the man driving.

 

_ “Hello there. Please, do not be alarmed.” _

 

He froze as he heard a woman’s voice in his ear. She was calm, yet firm in how she spoke, her voice curling into his head like a cat’s purr.

 

“ _ My name is Symmetra, and I am in need your help, Siren.” _

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER SUMMARY
> 
> \---
> 
> McCree looks through the dead bodies, and discovers an ECHO log that he plays. He immediately regrets it, as the log contains disturbing death screams and a hint of what is responsible for the carnage. It's too loud, and he and Hanzo scramble to hide as something comes looking for the source of the noise. 
> 
> Once the danger is passed, they continue advancing, tense, and find the surveillance room. McCree fiddles with the system and manages to turn it on, revealing it to be Vishkar technology. He explains to Hanzo that everybody used Vishkar technology back in the days, before it grew and reached its current level of influence. The noise and light they are making attracts the thing responsible for the carnage in the lower levels, and they don't have a choice but to fight it, coming out of the fight bruised but alive. 
> 
> Back at Vishkar, the Man in the Nice Suit is summoned by Symmetra, who informs him that the power system of the abandoned tower has been reactivated. The surveillance footage shows a figure with bright glowing tattoos. 
> 
> McCree finally manages to activate the generator, and they head back, Hanzo thanking McCree for saving him and telling him they're even, now. As they leave the tower, Hanzo hears a voice in his ear: 
> 
> “Hello there. Please, do not be alarmed. My name is Symmetra, and I am in need your help, Siren.”
> 
> \---


	16. Behind Closed Doors

  
  


They arrived back in town just shy of an hour later, the sun beginning its descent into the glacial horizon and glinting off of the snow and ice-capped mountains in the distance. Lieutenant Amari greeted them at the gate as before. Though the stalwart guard tried her best to keep a neutral face, her lips curled at the edges into a half-grin as she let them through, ushering them inside and directing them to head back to the base. 

 

_ “You’re going to want to meet with the commander at HQ.”  _ She added.  _ “Don’t worry; I’ve explained the situation to him, and with any luck, he’ll be there to greet you when you two arrive.” _

 

As they made their way to the base, Jesse leading them through the streets with practiced ease, Hanzo noted that whereas the morning had been filled with a lazy meandering of ruffians and those nursing a hangover, the streets of the late-afternoon and early evening seemed to have come alive with lighthearted, drunken rabbles and rancour. They passed a group of soldiers with the Overwatch emblem enblazened across their armor, sloppily leaning against each other as they exaggerated stories and stumbled their way to Emily’s, where a jaunty tune began to play from within.

 

Hanzo hadn’t been paying a great deal of attention, as his mind had been playing Symmetra’s words to him over and over again like a broken record.

 

_ “You have questions, I know. I will explain everything soon when we are alone, but know this -- I am your ally, Siren. I am here to help you find the Vault.”   _

 

A static visage of a dark-skinned woman had flickered in his field of view, as if she was mere inches from him. The image had changed rapidly; one minute she was five feet from him, and the next, she was ten feet, her long hair fluttering and whipping around behind her from an unseen force. She flickered back to five feet away, and in the final shift, he could only see a close-up of her piercing yellow eyes.

 

_ “Trust me or not, but we will need each other’s help if we are going to survive on this planet.” _

 

Her eyes had faded from view, and her voice grew distant.

 

_ “We shall speak again in due time. Stay safe, Siren. I am counting on you.” _

 

The transmission had cut off sharply after that, the blue static in his vision settling with the dust that kicked up from the tires, and he had been left with nothing but his own reeling thoughts and the rumbling hum of the technical as they sped away from the Marrowfield. 

 

Hanzo felt his skin crawl. Someone,  _ something  _ out there knew who he was.  _ What  _ he was. She knew he was not alone, and he was willing to bet she was fully capable of contacting him at any point. She could locate him at any time; there was no doubt she was a threat.

 

He didn’t trust her,  _ couldn’t  _ trust her. Oh, he would be an absolute fool to trust her.

 

But there was no denying she knew something he didn’t, and that alone was enough to frustrate and confuse him.

 

The archer gritted his teeth, and turned when he heard Jesse call out to him.

 

“We’re here.” Jesse pointed a thumb at the iron door that opened into a run-down lobby, where a surprisingly warm light hummed overhead as they stepped through the threshold. 

 

The main room was small, and every inch of space was currently being used for something in some way. It was one part workshop, one part barracks, and one part makeshift war room with a large bulletin board towards the far back. 

 

Standing in front of the board was an older man with thinning grey-white hair and a long, pronounced scar that ran from his brow to his lower jaw. As the two approached, the man gave Hanzo a once-over with a cold stare before nodding to Jesse with a huff.

 

“This guy the friend you were talking about?” 

 

“He is.” Jesse said at the same time as Hanzo retorted with a sharp, “And if I am?” They both turned to look at one another, sharing a brief moment of ‘what the shit’ before returning to their own state of gruffness.

 

“Cute.” The irritating old man finally turned to face the two of them, his hand stiffly outstretched to Hanzo. “Jack Morrison. Former commander of Overwatch.”

 

Without even looking at the hand, Hanzo crossed his arms across his chest and gave a half-nod at him. “Hanzo. Just Hanzo.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Jesse smirk approvingly, and he steeled his expression so as not to give a knowing smile back.

 

Jack glanced down at his own hand before crossing his arms back across his chest. His grimace refused to leave his face, and Hanzo was beginning to think maybe it was just stuck like that. His father  _ had  _ always warned him of that. “I take it you two being back here means the mission was a success, then?”

 

“Yup. Tower’s up an’ runnin’ now. Had a lil’ bandit problem, but we took care of it.” Jesse patted his belt for his cigars and stuck one in his mouth. He did a quick flick of the wrist, his lighter was procured, and in a flash, his cigar was lit. “Generator’s powered, but I reckon it’s gonna need a more technical touch to get everythin’ back online.”

 

Jack’s shoulders relaxed for a split second, and something akin to a happy expression almost crossed his face. “Better than nothing, I suppose. Guess we can try and get Oxton out there to patch things up tomorrow.”

 

“I believe,” Hanzo mused, “I recall hearing Miss-- er, Lena mentioning someone named Winston requesting her time for a project.”

 

The tension that left the grisled man before them suddenly returned as he pinched his brow tightly with a hard sigh. “Figures.”

 

“Is there an issue, Morrison?” Hanzo looked to Jesse for any sort of explanation, but he only shrugged in confusion.

 

Jack sighed again and ran a hand through his hair. “Winston… The commander of Overwatch has,” he waved his hand, “Good intentions with his projects, but he’s unfocused. We’re supposed to be fighting a war, and he keeps going off to build some kind of machine that cures all diseases or whatever.”

 

Jesse chuckled. “I doubt the big guy would’ve taken on this kinda role if he didn’t think he could handle it.”

 

“I realize that, McCree. And I’m sure he is capable in his own right.” Jack muttered bitterly. “But we need a  _ leader,  _ someone who’s going to inspire these soldiers to fight _.  _ Do you really think anyone would rally behind a commander that sits in his lab all day, thinkering around on all his little projects?”

 

“First off, you know damn well why Winston don’t leave his lab much, so drop it.” Jesse’s face darkened, and Hanzo saw his fist ball at his side. A short plume of smoke puffed out the other side of his mouth as he took his cigar in hand to speak. “An’ second, this ain’t your time anymore, Former Commander Morrison, so quit goin’ off ‘bout what this resistance needs an’ what it don’t.”

 

Jack stepped forward with a sneer, making as though to say something, but was cut off by the sound of a lumbering thump from further back in the room, where metal bars separated what looked like a small cell from the rest of the first floor. Hanzo spun on his heel in time to see a metal panel slide back from the floor, and reveal a series of stairs lead into a basement level further below.

 

From the stairwell emerged a large, hulking figure, with thick white fur and two pairs of terrifyingly heavy arms that dragged the rest of its muscled body up onto the main floor with a hearty grunt. Its teeth gnarled and protruded out like tusks, despite its ape-like features, and its gangly legs curled up against its stomach as it lurched forward.

 

A bullymong _.  _ And it was  _ massive _ in this small space.

 

In one swift motion, Hanzo pulled his bow and nocked an arrow before taking aim at the beast. “Stand back!”

 

The room tensed immediately. Jack and Jesse both jumped back from Hanzo’s side, the former commander grabbing the ledge of the desk at his side. The bullymong let out a surprised yelp of sorts and scrambled backwards clumsily, tripping over the lip of the stairwell and hitting its wall against the back of the cell. It brought one arm up to his head to block and… cower?

 

“Ah-- wait, wait, wait, Hanzo! Hanzo,” Jesse grabbed his shoulder sharply, and Hanzo whipped his head to meet his gaze. “Don’t shoot!”

 

“What?!” Hanzo growled and shrugged off the hand, adjusting his aim once more. “Don’t move, this thing could--”

 

He heard the sound of a gun being armed beside him.

 

“Lower your weapon. Now.” Jack barked out, a handgun drawn and aimed at the archer. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

 

Hanzo froze in place, his focus now on the armed man. Beside him, Jesse scowled and stepped forward. “Jack, what the hell?!”

 

“‘What the hell’ yourself, McCree.” He spun to face Jesse, but kept the gun pointed at Hanzo. “Your _friend_ here was about to shoot the goddamn commander and you’re getting short with me?”

 

_ Commander?  _

 

Hanzo blinked and looked ahead, his brow furrowed. His eyes scanned the room, but all he saw was that...cowering bullymong, and the other two men beside him. 

 

“In our new friend’s defense,” A low, rumbly voice called out from the cell, and Hanzo nearly dropped his bow when he saw the bullymong’s mouth moving. It hobbled carefully out of the cell, one lumbering arm after the other until it was standing only a few scant feet from the trio. 

 

With one careful nudge from its massive hands, the bullymong readjusted the pair of spectacles on its nose. “I don’t get out much.”

 

Hanzo stared, slack-jawed. Ever so slowly, he stood up from his crouched stance and slung his bow over his back again, eyes wide in disbelief. “You’re… you...”

 

The bullymong, Winston, made a face that looked like a smile and stood taller, his head nearly hitting the ceiling. “A pleasure to meet you! My name is Winston, commander of the newly reinstated Overwatch.”

 

Hanzo was about to lose his goddamn mind with this planet.

  
  
  


“Well, ain’t you a sight for sore eyes, big fella!” Jesse shot Jack a glare before patting Hanzo on the shoulder lightly and approaching Winston with a smile. 

 

Winston gave a hearty laugh, the sound low but jovial. “There’s no need for the flattery, McCree, but thank you. It’s good to see you after all these years.”

 

Jesse pinched the end of his cigar and tucked it away, gesturing towards Hanzo with an open hand. “Amari’s probably already given you the rundown ‘bout everythin’, but I thought it was only fittin’ I introduce y’all to my buddy here personally, considerin’ the circumstances.”

 

“Indeed she has.” The bully-mander. The mong-ston. The bullymong commander named Winston turned towards the archer with a chuckle. “It’s Hanzo, yes? Am I saying that right?” 

 

Hanzo looked up to see everyone staring towards him now, realizing he’d probably been staring for far longer than he originally thought, and he cleared his throat. “Y-yes. I… yes, you are. Thank you.”

 

“Ah, good.” Winston nodded and settled back on his arms. “Lieutenant Amari tells us you’re off-planet. Exciting!”

 

He tried not to stiffen at the remark. The… bullymong seemed friendly enough, but shock was still fresh in his system. “I suppose that is a word for it, yes.”

 

“What brings you here?” Jack’s tone was stern, cautious, full of mistrust. “People don’t normally come to Pandora on vacation. Those who do are either adrenaline junkies or just plain stupid.”

 

“I have my reasons.” The archer glanced away, and crossed his arms across his chest in an attempt to cover the tattered sleeve of his jacket. With any luck, Jack would see it as Hanzo’s own untrusting nature. “I do not believe they are of your concern, however.”

 

Jack bristled, his eyes narrowing. “Considering you’re probably going to be working alongside us, I would think it  _ is _ our concern to know where your allegiance lies.”

 

“An’ of course he’ll tell us, with you bein’ so polite an’ reasonable ‘bout it.” Jesse rolled his eyes. “Look, Jack-hole, why Hanzo’s here ain’t nearly as important as him helpin’ us find this goddamn Vault, so lay off.”

 

“Not to mention,” Hanzo chimed in with a hardened glare at Jack, “That  _ he  _ is standing right here. And that  _ he _ doesn’t like speaking in the third person, so I’d prefer you address me directly if you have an issue with me.”

 

Jack took a commanding step towards Hanzo, and up this close, he could see more of the scars that marred his face and the intensity behind those blue eyes of his. “Listen, off-planet, you may be new around here, but that doesn’t mean you get to just waltz in and start giving commands--”

 

“Agent Morrison.” Winston hissed, scowling fiercely at the older man. “Don’t forget that these two just risked their lives to re-establish a vital line of communication for Overwatch, and that they did so because  _ you  _ specifically asked for them to prove their allegiance and willingness to work with us.” He shifted around the workshop, clearly well-practiced in maneuvering these tight spaces, until he was nearing the stairs leading up to the second level. As he passed Hanzo, he grinned. “Thank you for doing that, by the way. Really a huge help.”

 

Hanzo blinked, but nodded. “Of course, Commander Winston.”

 

Jack frowned, stepping back to let the bullymong through. “Commander, I still don’t--”

 

“We will have time for your nitpicking later, but right now,” Winston motioned for them to follow with one of his free hands, “We have more important matters to discuss.”

  
  


\----

  
  


Whereas the downstairs level was meant more as a general workshop space for the resistance, the upstairs was clearly where the war-plans were drawn up and finalized. 

 

Well-cared for doors hissed open as the four of them made their way into the main room and gathered around the holo-console in the center. Around them, Jesse watched as the unpowered screens sparked to life suddenly, a stylized ‘A’ appearing on the monitors, and a gentle voice came on overhead.

 

_ “Good evening, Commander Winston. Agent Morrison.”  _ A pause, and if AI’s could smile, Jesse could hear it in her voice.  _ “Agent McCree. It is good to see you in relative health.” _

 

The Vault Hunter gave a laugh at that. “Ain’t that the word for it. Nice to see you too, Athena.”

  
  


Winston was already typing furiously across his keyboard, gesturing towards the back door with a free hand. “Athena, we are going to be discussing sensitive matters here in a second. Please ensure the proper protocols are taken.”

 

_ “Understood, Commander.”  _ From a small screen on the desk to the far corner, a small beam of light cascaded outward into the room, scanning the general area with a fan of blue light. It passed over them one by one until it stopped on Hanzo, and a red error message appeared on the central console. 

 

_ “Unidentified personel detected. Admin authorization needed to proceed.” _

 

Jesse watched Hanzo shift in place, eyes darting towards the exit, but he held up a hand towards the archer in a non-verbal command of ‘wait’.

 

“Oh, right.” Winston chuckled nervously. “This is a friend of McCree’s. He’s cleared for this briefing.”

 

_ “Understood, Commander. Commencing protocol Five-Two-A.”  _

 

A second later, there was a gentle metallic whirring noise as a retractable wall of metal siding came down from the ceiling, blocking the back windows and barring the door behind them. Jesse then heard a sharp locking sound as the door hit the floor and a simple three-tone chime. 

 

_ “Protocol Five-Two-A now in effect. The area is now secure. Outgoing communications have been suspended until further notice. Any unauthorized personnel attempting to enter the facility at this time will be detained and removed from the premises.” _

 

“Thank you, Athena.” Winston smiled as he turned back towards the screens. In front of them, a topographical map of Pandora appeared, a bright red dot indicating the location of Gibraltar. Jesse and Hanzo moved around towards the left side of the console while Jack took to the right, and before them, a map key appeared as more signs began to load in.

 

With a nod, Winston waved a hand towards Jesse. “McCree, if you would please procure the Vault Key.”

 

Jesse looked to his side at Hanzo, silently asking for further permission. When he received a curt headnod, the gunslinger fished the Key out of his bag and held it aloft for the room to see. Once again, an alien, pulsing purple glow filled the room, with a thrumming wave-like sound. Carefully, he set the key in the center of the console, where it began to float inside the holo-space above the map.

 

Jack crossed his arms across his chest, eyes critically inspecting every inch of the key as he did so. “Still can’t believe you two just found something like this.”

 

“Well, technically,” Jesse scratched the base of his neck, “Han an’ I ain’t the ones who found it. We just took it off some idiots’ hands when they realized too late what they had.”

 

The former commander frowned. “So you stole it from someone.”

 

“No, we didn’t steal it.” Jesse groaned, casting a wary look to the man across from him. “Some ol’... er,” he paused as he searched for the right word. “ _ Colleagues _ of mine robbed a Vishkar hypertrain an’ we took it off their hands to keep the heat off ‘em. They gave us the key, we went one way an’ they went the other.”

 

“That would explain all the recent Vishkar activity I’ve been hearing about in the tundra to the north of us.” Winston hummed, a hand rubbing his chin in thought. Resting his other two hands on either side of the console, he cast his gaze out towards the others. “Let’s go over what we do know so far, shall we?”

 

“Fair enough.” Jesse tipped his hat back, glancing back at Hanzo quickly before returning to the table. 

 

“We know the Vishkar corporation has recently garnered interest in finding and opening a Vault.” Winston typed something into the keyboard and suddenly, news articles and video feeds of Vishkar’s recent activities appeared on a few nearby screens. “As usual when it comes to the Vaults, unfortunately, there is no information on what’s inside; only that Vishkar desperately wants whatever  _ it  _ is.”

 

Jack made a waving hand motion across the screen, and suddenly, the articles shifted around until one was pulled forward with the headline from two years back,  _ ‘Vishkar Strikes Eridium, Stocks On The Rise’.  _

 

The print was too small to read here, but Jesse had seen this one before enough times to know what it spoke of: the discovery of a new fancy, but dangerous element known as Eridium. Its volatile nature made it both a powerful fuel source and a deadly weapon when in the wrong hands, and just talking about the damn stuff made Jesse’s skin crawl.

 

“We also know that, thanks to licensing and patents they’ve put on Eridium-based technologies, Vishkar now has more money than God.” Jack waved his hand at the newsfeed with a grunt. “They’ve been mining the stuff like crazy, but they’ve been keeping a tight lip on what they’re doing with it.”

 

Jesse drummed his fingers on the side of the console. “An’ if that ain’t bad enough, we don't got a clue who’s got the other parts of this damn thing. But if Vishkar sent a bunch of loaders after a couple’a no-name bandits, my money’s on them bein’ the key-holders.”

 

“That’s true.” Winston nodded seriously. He gave a knowing look across the room before his eyes landed once more on the key. “And without knowing its location, we have little chance of beating Vishkar to the Vault itself.”

 

“Assuming they even know the Vault’s location.” Hanzo pointed out. “There is a possibility that Vishkar might only have the rest of the key and no knowledge of where the Vault is.”

 

Jack shook his head. “Not likely. Vishkar isn’t the kind of company that wastes anything, be it time or resources. If they’re going after this Vault now, they’ve probably already found it and have just been biding their time while they try to piece the key together.”

 

“As much as it pains me to say it, Morrison’s got a point, Han.” Jesse sighed, scratching his beard as he ignored the glare he received from the man in question. “The only thing stoppin’ ‘em from openin’ that Vault is that floating rock on the table there.”

 

Winston’s brow furrowed as he continued to stare at the key, his eyes boring holes into the object as he spoke with a curious tone. “You know, I believe I recall hearing a few stories of the Vaults here and there-- of how that, even when a key is whole, they still take a considerably long time to charge up energy in order to actually open the Vault. Up to two centuries, even.”

 

The gunslinger raised a brow at that. “That so?”

 

“Well, I’m not entirely certain as to the validity of such tales.” Winston huffed, wiping a bit of dust from his glasses. “Truthfully, most of what I know about the Vaults comes from what I hear in passing, and even that isn’t much.”

 

“So we’re exactly where we started,” Hanzo remarked bitterly, Jesse seeing his face fall somewhat during the course of this conversation. “We have no leads on the Vault’s whereabouts, we have no way to stop Vishkar should they make themselves known, and we haven’t learned anything more about these Vaults than when we had begun this conversation.”

 

He could see the defeat flash across the archer’s eyes as he looked away, and Jesse almost felt sorry he couldn’t magically answer any of Hanzo’s questions any better than the rest of them. The feeling was understandable, though; to be so close yet so far to the information one wanted was infuriating and heartbreaking at the same time.

 

The room fell into silence as the four of them mulled over their thoughts, gathered around the holo-map of Pandora as if the solution to all of this would pop up at them if they just stared hard enough.

 

After a long, pregnant pause, Jack finally leaned forward over the map, and gave a long sigh. “I think I might know someone who knows a thing or two about Vaults.”

 

Three pairs of eyes landed on the man with surprise and interest, but all remained quiet until he spoke up again.

 

“An old friend of mine, sort of a… freelance investigator of sorts.” Jack ran a thumb across his nose, his gaze directed entirely towards one little dot on the map. “It’s been a bit since we last saw each other, but I figure they’re our best bet if we’re looking for info.”

Winston’s face seemed to brighten with hope at the revelation. “Do they live here in the city?”

 

Jack shook his head. “No, bit of a hermit, actually. They don’t stay in one place for too long, so tracking them down might be a bit tricky.” Standing up straight, the older soldier ran a hand against his neck. “But like I said: they’re our best bet, and we don’t have a lot of other options right now.”

 

“Do you think you can get in touch with them?” Hanzo turned to him, arms still folded against his chest tightly. 

 

Jack made an uncertain expression, his eyes looking up to the ceiling in thought as he blew a quick breath out from his mouth. “I can certainly try. Can’t guarantee anything, though.”

 

Jesse shrugged. “Well, guess it can’t hurt, right?”

 

“Honestly?” Jack chuckled grimly. “It just might.” 

 

With a short nod to rest of them, Jack made his way out the door just as Winston began to type into his keypad and the panels began to recede into the ceiling. Once again, there was a metallic latching sound, and a three-tone chime that rang out into the quiet room.

 

_ “Protocol Five-Two-A concluded. Outgoing communications will be restored upon leaving the premises.” _

 

“Thank you, Athena.” Winston finally turned to them with a weary smile, one that somehow overcame the harshness of his features and made the bullymong look that much more human. “I apologize for the rather… hectic day you two must have had by now. I realize a lot has happened in such a short amount of time.”

 

At that statement, Jesse began to slowly feel the weight of everything they had done that day tug on his aching limbs, and suddenly the idea of sleep sounded outright heavenly. And judging by the yawn Hanzo tried to stifle into his high collar, Jesse was more than confident the both of them were overdue for some shut eye.

 

He offered up a tired grin of his own towards the commander and shook his head. “Hectic’s just a way of life here. We’ll live, big fella.”

 

Winston moved towards the door, stretching his back arms as he walked. “Lieutenant Amari mentioned that you had just arrived in town not too long ago. Were you planning to stay the night here in the city?”

 

Jesse froze, and shot a look to Hanzo, who gave him one back that seemed to say, ‘well, are we?’. “I, uh… Hadn’t thought ‘bout it, quite frankly.”

 

“I would offer up use of the barracks to you both, but, um, as I’m sure you’re well aware, we, uh,” Winston laughed nervously as he gestured around them. “Don’t actually have the space to house you and your friend, unfortunately. But I’m sure we can figure something out--”

 

“‘Preciate the offer there, Winston, but really, it’s fine.” Jesse waved his hand at the thought and gestured out one of the upper floor windows towards the city. “We’ll find somethin’ for the night. Don’t worry.”

 

“I see.” The commander seemed to visibly deflate at his decline, but nodded sullenly. “Well, I won’t keep you any longer, seeing as we’ve taken up most of your time today anyways, so I suppose we shall talk more in the morning.”

 

With one large hand, he held the door open for the two of them as they exited the room and began to make their way towards the stairs. They were about halfway down when Jesse heard the bullymong call out to them.

 

“McCree, should you ever,” He paused, his face scrunched up in thought. “Should you ever change your mind about joining Overwatch again, please let me know.” Winston stood in the doorframe and shifted nervously in place. “I… I believe I’m speaking for everyone when I say we all missed you dearly in your absence.”

 

There was a long silence as Jesse stared at the unabashedly hopeful commander, who had always held out against anything and never gave up until the end. His thoughts were flooded with bittersweet memories of before, of him and the others fighting together, of creating a Pandora where no one feared Talon and their forces. 

 

But that was all they were at this point: memories.

 

He tipped his hat low, and gestured for Hanzo to follow. Running his metal hand against the railing going up, Jesse turned his back towards Winston with a long, hard sigh. “‘Night, big fella.”

 

The two of them left HQ in a mutual silence, a strange tension to the quiet night as the moon began to shine through the now relatively empty streets. At this hour, he reckoned, people were either passed out drunk or getting there, and it wouldn’t be long now until the city lights dimmed and the sounds of night took the place of the hustle and bustle of the day.

 

Wordlessly, Jesse led them towards what he remembered being the only motel in the city, a rusty and dusty hovel of a building that had probably never had ‘better days’. The rooms were all cramped, the beds had springs coming loose, and the imposing woman at the front desk looked as though she could use either one of them as a toothpick, tossing the key at them with a stern voice, “Don’t lose it.”

 

As they piled into the room and each took a bed to themselves, Jesse flopped onto his and sighed into the mattress, sinking about half an inch before feeling a coil poke his leg. The sheets were old and worn, and smelled faintly of feet, but for the first time in a long time, the two of them had a roof over their head and proper beds for the night.

 

Hanzo sat down on the edge of his mattress, setting his bow and quiver down on the other side facing the window. His brow was furrowed deeply, the man lost in deep thought, so it took Jesse by surprise when he heard Hanzo speak suddenly.

 

“Why do you hate Overwatch?”

 

“What?” He looked up in confusion at the man. “What makes you think I hate them?”

 

“You’ve been different since we’ve arrived.” Hanzo’s hands on his knees tightened as he looked up at him. “You’re more closed off. You don’t talk anymore than is necessary with those of Overwatch, and every mention of the name makes you look towards the exit as if to escape.”

 

Jesse rolled his eyes and onto his other side so his back was to Hanzo. “You’re imagin’ things.”

 

“I don’t believe I am, McCree.” He heard the bed creak as Hanzo shifted on the mattress. “Their cause is a noble, if slightly idealistic one. I was under the impression you would be happy they are standing up to fight Vishkar.”

 

He couldn’t help but laugh sadly at the notion. “Oh, I am. Think it’s great what they’re doin’ here. Mighty noble, indeed.” 

 

“Then what is the issue? Why are you so distant?”

 

The Vault Hunter sat up with a grunt and swung his sore legs over the side with a quiet sigh. “Look, I don’t hate Overwatch, angel. Really, I don’t. But,” he found himself running a hand over his metal one, over the dents and scratches that scarred the prosthesis. “Things change. People change. I ain’t the same man that joined Overwatch all them years ago.”

 

“And yet not one person we’ve met seems to care about that. No one but you.” Hanzo’s expression softened unexpectedly, and Jesse flinched at just how his eyes full of concern seemed just as intense to him as his deep scowl. “People care about you here, McCree. That alone is worth something.”

 

“I…” Jesse grit his teeth and shook his head. “I can’t. I can’t face,” He gestured in the air. “All this just yet. These people. This… fight. Everythin’.”

 

Hanzo leaned forward. “What do you mean?”

 

Jesse stared at Hanzo for a moment, looking for any sign that this was just a really fucked up way of messing with him, or something. Yet nothing of sort could be found in his eyes. With another sigh, he took off his hat and set down on the nightstand beside his bed. 

 

“I… I told you how I lost my arm right?” 

 

Hanzo paused. “You mentioned it briefly back in the Dust. Something about not moving fast enough.”

 

Jesse nodded hesitantly. Carefully, he unwrapped his cloak, tossing it onto the bed haphazardly, and held up his arm towards Hanzo. He was surprised when the man gave him a strange look, almost asking for permission before carefully talking his metal palm in hand to observe.

 

“That wasn’t really the best wordin’ for it, now that I think about it.” He admitted quietly, watching Hanzo trace a finger over one of the more pronounced ‘scars’ in the metal, a long groove that ran from the back of his thumb joint to where his wrist started. Hanzo seemed to be momentarily lost in thought until Jesse cleared his throat loudly and brought him back. 

 

“Sorry.” He let go of his hand, and inched backwards on his bed. “Please, continue.”

 

Carefully, the gunslinger pulled his arm back from Hanzo’s reach, suddenly feeling far too raw in this tiny room of theirs. “The whole story’s… complicated, but long an’ short of it is: I trusted the wrong person, an’ made the biggest mistake of my whole goddamn life.”

 

Hanzo was deathly silent, and if Jesse hadn’t spared a quick glance up to see if he was listening, he would have thought the man had left the room. Jesse let his eyes fall back down to his arm, and stared at the skull on the back of his arm for what felt like ages. 

 

“Lotta folks died ‘cause of me. An’ all this,” he waved his hand in the air, “Is just a reminder that I’ll be rightin’ those wrongs for the rest of my life. Or… tryin’ to, at least.” 

 

He felt the other’s eyes on him, but didn’t dare look up in fear of what he might see in them. Shock? Fear? Who knows. Jesse only knew that he wasn’t ready for whatever Hanzo’s reaction would be. 

 

“McCree…” Hanzo’s voice was unsure, and he tried again. “I… I am sorry. I had no idea you had such things weighing down on your shoulders.”

 

“S’not your fault, angel. Don’t need to apologize.” With a sullen chuckle, Jesse stood up from his bed and began to shed his armor into a corner of the room for the night, his back still towards the archer. As he crawled back into bed and under the sheets, he paused and looked back up at Hanzo with a half-grin. “Y’know, you _ can _ just call me Jesse.”

 

Hanzo gave him a startled look. “What?”

 

“I mean, you already did once, back at the comm tower.” He said simply. “Not tryin’ to force you, but, well… we’re partners after all, right?”

 

Jesse didn’t wait for an answer from Hanzo after that, as his body was long overdue for a proper night’s sleep. With a long, jaw-breaking yawn, he leaned over his side table to turn off the lamp, and curled an arm underneath his head as his eyes drooped shut.

 

“G’night, Han.”

 

As sleep began to tug on his consciousness, he heard Hanzo’s voice mumble quietly from the other side of the room.

 

“Good night… Jesse.”

  
  


\-----

  
  


Hanzo waited until he was certain the gunslinger was fast asleep before he slipped out onto the concrete balcony on the other side of the room.

 

The night air was cold, colder than he was expecting. Around him, everything was nearly pitch black, the only lights in the city still on belonging to Em’s Pub just a few blocks away and a tiny clinic just south of the motel with a pair of fluttering, neon wings as its logo. If he looked up closely enough, he could even see the faint glimmer of the city’s shield flickering against the midnight sky and twinkling stars.

 

He sighed, a small puff of air escaping from his lips, and fiddled with the ECHO device in his hand.

 

“I wish to make one thing clear to you: I do not trust you.” 

 

There was a moment where nothing happened, where he thought perhaps he had imagined that strange woman from before and that everything had been just a bad daydream. But then he saw a familiar distortion across his field of vision, and the static image of Symmetra appeared before him once more.

 

_ “I would be surprised if you did.”  _ She flickered to an image of only her golden yellow eyes again, as striking and as cold as they had before.  _ “It is good to see you again, Siren.” _

 

He sneered, leaning against the railing and staring out at nothing in particular. “That is not my name.”

 

_ “I assumed it wasn’t. But considering you have not given me your name, it is what I have to refer to you as.”  _ Symmetra’s voice was playful, yet distant, and the dissonance between the two made him uneasy.

 

“I will ask you this once and only once, and I expect you to answer truthfully, Symmetra.” Hanzo hissed with a cautious venom, like a cornered snake. “Who are you, and what do you want?”

 

The image crackled as she hummed thoughtfully.  _ “Who I am is not important so much as what I need from you. And you from me.” _

 

He crossed his arms across his chest and glared outward. “Speak plainly.”

 

_ “We both want the same thing, Siren; we both want to find and open the Vault. And I know you have questions.”  _ The image shifted and suddenly a full image of the dark-haired woman was beside him on the balcony.  _ “I only wish to help you find your answers.” _

 

Against his better judgement, he held the sharp retort on his tongue for a moment to let her speak. Her image drifted around him gracefully as if carried by the cool evening breeze, stray wisps of her free-flowing hair clipping through the railing beside him.

 

_ “Head to Lynchwood. Once there, seek out the woman who masks herself in shadows. She knows a great deal about the Vaults, and will be able to help you find what you are looking for. You will know when you find her.”  _ Her eyes crinkled faintly at the corners, a quick smile that he almost missed.  _ “Or more than likely, when she finds you.” _

 

“How do I know this is not some trap?” Hanzo stood up abruptly. These cryptic messages were beginning to wear his patience thin. “So far, you have given me no proof that you are trustworthy, yet you insist that I take your word at face-value.”

 

_ “I have taken your opinion under advisement.”  _ The hologram blinked again, once again showing only her eyes.  _ “The choice is yours to make, Siren. But realize that there is only so much a single person is capable of on their own.” _

 

Without another word, Hanzo watched as the static and distortion ceased abruptly from his vision, and the after-image of those cold yellow eyes faded as he blinked, his own slowly adjusting to the darkness of night.

 

He listened to the low moan of the wind whipping through the valley for just a minute longer, in vain hope that it would give him some sort of direction, before giving up and retiring back to the room, the balcony door shutting behind him with a soft  _ click _ .

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all!! Life's been really,,, tough for me rn for various reasons but I'm doing my best to stay afloat in this sea of fuck!! 
> 
> Hope yall enjoyed this chapter :D i really enjoyed writing this one and was personally surprised at myself at how fast i wrote this?? dang me, way to go!
> 
> Thank you for reading and as always, you can find me over [here](http://aerihead.tumblr.com/) and Cin over [here](http://thetiniestcicada.tumblr.com/) on tumblr!


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